Wishful Divergence
by Nia River
Summary: An unexpected find in the attic of Grimmauld Place changes the course of Harry's life. Except not, because it's not 'this' Harry who'll be affected. Rather, everything is about to change for another Harry, from long ago and far away.
1. 01: Blatant Plot Device

**Posted**: 16 April, 2012

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: An unexpected find in the attic of Grimmauld Place changes the course of Harry's life. Except not, because it's not _this_ Harry who'll be affected. Rather, everything is about to change for another Harry, from long ago and far away.

* * *

**01: Blatant Plot Device**

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"No joke kid. Now, if you'd get on with it that'd be much appreciated. Oh and the name's Bob, by the way."

"_Bob_? And you're a—"

"One hundred percent, real-deal, wish-granting genie." The being, _Bob_ apparently, bowed mockingly at him. "At your service, and all that. But seriously, I don't have all day. Or well, I do, but I'd much rather be back in my lamp, sleeping it away."

Harry stared. How did he get himself into these situations? He'd just been cleaning up Grimmauld Place a bit, going through some of the old bits and bobs in the dusty reaches of the attic, when he spotted a lamp he was sure hadn't been there yesterday. It was an oil lamp to be precise, one of those old fashioned things that made you think of—well, of genies really. One second he'd absently swiped the dust from the lamp, and the next a gaseous being poured out of it in a flashy display of golden sparks and purple fog.

"You don't look much like a genie."

Bob huffed. "Yeah, yeah, everyone's a critic. What, you want me to wear one of those cliché traditional numbers?" He batted his eyelashes in a mocking, sickeningly sweet way, sneering all the while. "Those billowing, see-through Persian pants? A flimsy bikini top and tacky golden accessories? Maybe even a gauzy veil to titillate with you my coquettishness?"

Harry gave a visible shudder, his face momentarily horrified as his mind provided a mental image of what that would look like. He had to fight the urge to gag. Bob was nothing like you might expect a genie to be. He wasn't attractive or exotic or ethereal in any way. He was overweight with three chins, balding hair and beady eyes. He wore a musty suit that looked to have old food stains, and sweat beaded at his brow and stained the neck and underarm areas of his attire. The idea of him in a woman's harem type of outfit was—it was very, very disturbing.

"No," he said firmly, "that won't be necessary." He sighed, frustrated with the whole situation. Wasn't life meant to be idyllically normal and uneventful for him now that Voldemort was no more? "So, explain exactly what situation I've gotten myself into now."

"It's pretty simple kid, I think even you'll be able to follow." He paused and gave Harry a sceptical look. "Probably. Basically, I'm a genie and that there's my lamp you found. You rubbed it, poof I appeared, and now you're the master of the lamp. Three wishes, that's the deal, with all the usual safeguards."

"Safeguards?"

"No wishing for more wishes is the big one. And I'm bound by the basic limits of magic, same as any other magic being. Can't create true love, or properly raise the dead, or make gold from thin air, or real life. Y'know, those things." He shrugged. "Other than that, I'm also a bit of a specialist. My wish-granting abilities are of the benefit-specific-temporal-dimensional sort."

"What does that mean?"

"Simply put, for you less intellectual sorts, your wishes have to be ones that benefit you directly, so none of that selfless 'helping and/or saving others makes me happy' crap. Also, they've got to affect the past. Catch is though, once they're made it won't be _your_ past anymore. Can't really change what's done, so it'll create an alternate timeline, another dimension. Means this you'll never actually benefit from whatever you wish for. Instead, it'll be another version of you who reaps the rewards, as it were."

"Let me see if I've got this right. I make three wishes to happen in the past, and they'll create a sort of what-if type of alternate timeline. But there'll be no effect on _this_ timeline, so if I want I can then go about the rest of my hopefully normal life, pretending this whole genie affair never happened."

"That's the size of it. Oh, except one other thing. You got three minutes from the moment I pop out to make your wishes, otherwise you drop dead."

"I drop—" Harry choked off, looking wildly about for a clock. "How long—"

"About a minute twenty to go. Better make it snappy kid."

Harry panicked and his mind blanked, then he realised now was possibly the very worst time _ever_ to develop a deer-in-the-headlights reaction to life threatening situations, and his mind started whirring. Think, think, think, he told himself. If he could change something in his past, something to do with him personally, to hopefully make for a better life, what would it be? His first thoughts were to save his parents or Sirius, so that he'd grow up with them, but Bob had specifically said that 'saving others makes me happy' wasn't a direct enough impact. That sucked, because he could really have used some parental guidance in his childhood. He'd even found benefit in it as a young adult really, he thought, as he absentmindedly traced a certain ring on his finger. He froze, staring at the gold ring and black stone. Could he? But it'd be too dangerous unless—yes, that was a thought. If Bob could do it, that is, and possibly get rid of the one inside his younger self too.

"One minute," the genie said, tapping pointedly at his wrist.

"Can you get rid of all Voldemort's Horcruxes?" he asked quickly.

"Nope, no can do. Each would count separately, and you've only got three wishes."

"Damn." He hurriedly changed his idea. "What about removing all harmful magic from a Horcrux, would that work or would the soul piece and any hexes all count separately too?"

"Hmm," Bob hummed then nodded. "Yeah, that could count for one." Harry grinned in triumph till the genie added, "And you're down to fifty seconds."

His heart lurched, realising time was running out. "I want you to strip all harmful magic, including Voldemort's Horcrux, from the resurrection stone. I want you to remove the piece of Voldemort's soul from my younger self as well, and without killing him. And then, I want my younger self to be granted mastery of the resurrection stone—including the whole hidden aspect it has." Harry blurted out hurriedly.

Harry's held his breath, adrenaline pumping, as he waited to see if he'd made three acceptable wishes in time. Bob stared at him blankly for a moment which seemed to last an eternity. Then he grinned, a mischievous sort of grin which Harry had only ever seen on Fred and George and most frighteningly Peeves, and nodded.

"Wishes granted. Good job kid."

And then Bob faded into purple smoke, which funnelled rapidly back into the oil lamp through its spout. The lamp gave a thrumming sort of sound that echoed around the room, and flashed with a golden light so bright as to be blinding. When Harry blinked back the spots from his vision, Bob's lamp was gone as if it had never been.

He stared around him, wondering if he could have imagined it all, but it had been too vivid for a daydream. He sighed. At least he was still alive, that was something. And maybe, somewhere out in the multiverse, there would be little Harry Potter who would grow up knowing his parents, and who would never have to offer himself up as a martyr. The idea of that warmed him. The only worry he had was that troublemaking grin of Bob's, and suddenly Harry remembered that saying to 'be careful what you wish for'.

Did he make a mistake, he wondered, or leave some sort of loophole for trouble? Then it hit him. He'd forgotten to specify an age! All he'd said was younger, so who knew when Bob would pick. He hoped to Merlin the genie didn't choose right before he went off to let Voldemort kill him as the time to remove the Horcrux. If that happened, would he have died for good in the forest that night? A feeling of dread tried to settle over him but he pushed it away. What was done was done, and the genie was gone now. He'd just hope that it all worked out for the best, and get back to enjoying his own nice, normal, uneventful post-Voldemort life.

..ooOOoo..

Bob grinned, rather pleased with the prospect of fulfilling his latest master's wishes. The kid hadn't really had time to think it all through and word it perfectly, and that left Bob with an opening to cause a certain amount of chaos. Specifically, some chaos against those two old bastards Dumbledore and Riddle, who he still had a grudge against for two separate and unrelated incidents long ago, where they each tracked his lamp down and tried to force him to grant their wishes. It didn't work that way of course. Genies were ultimately the servants of Fate and Whim, and could only be mastered by those who were _supposed_ to master them, and so Dumbledore and Riddle both had failed. It still pissed Bob off though that they'd tried, not to mention some of the spells they used in their attempts had been nasty, and hurt like the devil. Well, he'd have some revenge now.

He materialised in a derelict, sorry excuse for a house, and deftly side-stepped hexes and traps. In a hidden nook he spied a ring and, with a mere thought, the dark spells and curses, and the foul fragment of soul, were all ripped away from it, unravelling and dissipating like they'd never been. He plucked up the ring and disappeared. He reappeared again in a house entirely opposite of the previous. It could be best described as depressingly dull and ordinary, but immaculately clean. He pressed through the door to the cupboard under the stairs as if it were insubstantial and looked down at the scrawny child inside. It would be the work of a moment to strip away this other Horcrux, but for some reason he hesitated—another loophole had caught his attention.

The kid had asked for the _Horcrux_ to be removed from the ring, but for the _soul piece_ to be removed from his mini-self. Now, to the unenlightened that was the same thing, but there was actually a very small difference. A Horcrux was a fractured-off piece of soul, _and_ magic. He wondered if the kid would appreciate what he was considering. It would mean an extra power kick, as without that Dark Lord's soul tainting it, the mini-kid's magic would absorb the extra into itself. But there were some abilities associated with it that might cause him some trouble. After a moments consideration Bob decided 'to hell with it', because the potential confusion it would cause amused him. He stripped away the soul piece, leaving the magic behind. The mini-kid seemed to sigh and relax into deeper sleep as the scar on his brow visibly faded. A feeling of vicious satisfaction filled Bob to know the damage he'd just done to that damned Riddle.

He then glanced at the ring in his hand. He felt for the power in it, and traced back the connections, and then, with a smirk, he rested a ghostly hand on the kid's head. The resurrection stone disengaged from the gold ring setting Bob held and hovered in mid-air, joined soon by a silvery cloak and aged wand which faded into view. The three objects pressed close and, quietly and without fanfare, as if nothing of note was happening, merged together into one item which faded out and back in on the kid's finger. Bob's smirk widened, just imagining the drama this would be causing for Dumbledore when his all-powerful wand disappeared, along with the invaluable Potter heirloom he was supposed to be safeguarding. Bless the kid for adding the 'hidden aspect' comment to his wish. He was probably just making sure no one would notice the ring and take it from his mini-self, and hadn't a clue that said aspect had only been granted to the resurrection stone when all three Hallows merged under a single master.

Wish granted, chaos caused, and two old men inflicted with a nice bit of misery to make up for that they caused him. Bob sighed with satisfaction at a job well done, even as he felt himself tugged back to the original universe, to his proper time, where his lamp waited. He opened his eyes to the familiar walls of his eternal home and got up to take a peek outside and see where he found himself this time. Ah, nice, he thought, a junk shop. He'd landed in one of those before and it had been _ages_ before his new master happened upon him. As much fun as granting wishes could be, he much preferred the lazy life of the lamp-bound, snoozing away the passing of time.

* * *

**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


	2. 02: A Mysterious Ring

**Posted**: 21 April, 2012

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: An unexpected find in the attic of Grimmauld Place changes the course of Harry's life. Except not, because it's not _this_ Harry who'll be affected. Rather, everything is about to change for another Harry, from long ago and far away.

* * *

**02: A Mysterious Ring**

"Up!" came the sharp order, accompanied by equally sharp raps on the cupboard door.

"M'up," Harry mumbled.

"Come see to breakfast. And hurry up."

His aunt's footsteps retreated down the hall and Harry stretched as much as his cramped quarters would allow, muffling a wide yawn with his hand. It was then that first noticed it, sitting unassumingly on his right index finger. He squinted in confusion at the odd blob before grabbing for his glasses. Once they were set on his nose he examined his finger through clearer vision. As he'd thought, it was a ring. A wide wooden ring set with a black stone. He thought there might be something carved in the gem too, but there wasn't enough light in the cupboard to see.

"Where did that come from?" he wondered.

He surely didn't remember putting it on himself, and he knew his aunt and uncle were highly unlikely to gift him with something, let alone jewellery, to say nothing of the ridiculous idea that they snuck it onto his finger while he slept. That just left Dudley, but why his cousin would do such a thing escaped him, unless—yes, that seemed likely. Could it really be that Dudley was setting him up for trouble? Who was he kidding, of course it could be true, it was just the sort of thing the other boy would do. He probably stole the ring and then slipped it to Harry, so he could frame Harry for the crime.

Thinking fast Harry slipped the ring from his finger, grabbed a pair of his socks, and hid the ring inside them. Aside from the uniform he planned to wear for the day, he arranged his few remaining clothes so that they looked as unsuspicious as possible, while hiding the socks at the same time. He wasn't sure how successful he was, not entirely sure what would make a shelf of clothes suspicious as opposed to unsuspicious.

"Stop dawdling and get up!"

"Just a second Aunt Petunia," Harry said.

Well, he'd done his best and it would have to do, Harry decided, quickly tugging on his school uniform, flicking the stray spider off his trousers. Dressing in record time he stepped out of his cupboard and hurried into the kitchen before his aunt got too angry. Dudley, sitting at the table munching on a chocolate bar and watching cartoons as he waited for breakfast, threw out a leg to trip him. Harry nimbly dodged it though, and quickly took over frying the bacon and eggs, and started buttering toast.

Breakfast seemed to drag on forever for Harry, who was tense and expectant, sure that at any moment Dudley would launch his plot with accusations of Harry stealing the ring. When that happened Harry would just have to hope with all he had that his hurried hiding spot wouldn't be uncovered. But breakfast passed and Dudley said not a word. In fact, he didn't look like he was plotting at all, which was odd because Harry knew his cousin well enough to realise Dudley wasn't clever enough to keep a secret, or to act with any sort of convincing skill.

Aunt Petunia soon bundled them into the car to head off for school. Harry buckled in and promptly pressed against the door in an effort to get away from Dudley, who was leaning back around to try and punch him from where he sat up front. Looking out the window, Harry wondered what was going on. If it hadn't been Dudley who put the ring on him then how did he end up with it? He was pondering this when, as the car turned down the next street, the ring in question suddenly and inexplicably appeared on his finger.

Harry gasped and stared, holding his hand up. It took him a moment to realise he had caught Dudley's attention with his actions, and he looked up in dread. Even if he hadn't planned it all along, seeing Harry wearing a ring that couldn't be his would still prompt Dudley to tattle to Aunt Petunia, and then Harry would be in trouble anyway. Harry braced himself for his aunt's screeching and accusatory glares in the rear view mirror, but they didn't come.

"What wrong with you, freak?" Dudley demanded.

"What?" Harry asked, glancing from the ring to his cousin.

"Yeah, you got a hand, big deal," Dudley said in a 'duh' sort of tone, then scoffed and turned his attention back front, muttering, "_Weirdo_."

Harry gaped. It didn't make sense. Why wasn't Dudley getting him into trouble? It was like he hadn't spotted the ring, and yet he couldn't have missed it, not with Harry holding his hand up and on display like that. He knew Dudley had looked, he'd even mentioned the hand, and yet—so why hadn't he mentioned the ring?

Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Harry slipped the mysterious ring from his finger. He paused only a moment, to furtively inspect the symbol that was carved into the stone, since he had the light to see it now. It was a triangle with a line down the middle and a circle inside. He also noted that the ring seemed to shimmer faintly silver in the sunlight, but perhaps that was a trick of the light.

Deciding he'd taken enough of a risk, Harry quickly and stealthily slipped the ring into his pocket before it could be spotted. He would decide what to do with it later.

..ooOOoo..

Within a fortnight, Harry had established four things.

Firstly, the ring was stalking him. No, really it was, it was the only explanation. He had not, as he originally rationalised to himself, retrieved and donned the ring that first morning before getting into the car, only to forget he had it. No, the ring really _had_ appeared miraculously on his finger, as if by magic. He knew this because the few other times he tried to leave the ring at home, and once even buried it behind the school kitchens, it would find its way to his finger again. It seemed to happen when Harry got a certain distance from it, as if sensing he was getting far away and not wanting to be left behind.

Secondly, the ring was selectively invisible. Or, well, that was the best explanation Harry could come up with to explain that, while he could see it plain as day, not a single other person seemed to acknowledge its existence. Dudley had had it waved in his face, a teacher at school had happened upon him staring intently at it, it had fallen from his pocket once at the top of the steps and clattered down loudly even bouncing off a student's head, and in none of these situations, did any of them seem to notice. Heck, he'd even gotten brave enough to set it on the breakfast table one morning, right in front of all three Dursleys, in plain sight, and none of them seemed to notice anything odd except for the fact that Harry had chosen to touch the centre of the table.

Thirdly, the ring made _things_ happened. More specifically, whenever he wore the ring, those _things_ that sometimes happened around him tended to happen a lot more often. Things like the time he'd ended up on the school roof, or the teacher's wig had turned blue, or Dudley's horrible jumper had shrunk. _Odd things_. It had taken him a while to realise this, because in the past he'd put credit for the happenings down to bad luck. They happened rarely enough that he'd never put together that it really might be his fault, as his aunt and uncle blamed. And yet, it was a bit harder to deny when, whenever he wore the ring, odd things happened frequently, even several times a day, and usually when he was feeling very emotional in some way. The sparks that sometimes spluttered from the ring just before it happened, as if working itself up, were a bit of a giveaway too.

Fourthly and finally, the ring wasn't the only thing that could be invisible. He'd discovered it quite by accident the first time. He'd had a particular bad day at school: Dudley had stolen Harry's homework to copy then destroyed the original, so the teacher had told him off in front of the whole class, then at art time Dudley had 'accidentally' spilled a pot of green paint over Harry, but Piers and Gordon backed Dudley up that Harry had done it himself, and then he had to see the headmaster about his 'attention-seeking, troublemaking behaviours', and at lunch Dudley stole his food and _licked_ it before giving it back, and since Harry wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole after that he was extremely hungry. It was probably a good thing he'd decided to keep the ring in his pocket that day because who knew how many _things_ would have happened to the teachers and other students. As it was, even without wearing the ring, there had been an incident when a nearby window mysteriously shattered.

The situation, that is to say the discovery of the fourth thing, culminated when Dudley decided to start a round of Harry hunting. Frustrated, depressed, angry, hungry, and exhausted, Harry ran for as long as he could before trying to hide in a broom closet. When he heard Piers yell, "I saw him go in there!" from nearby he knew he'd been caught. Panicking, his hand distractedly slipped down into his pocket, fiddling with the ring. It slipped half onto his thumb when the door jerked open. Harry flinched away from the light and huddled in the corner, wishing that they wouldn't spot him, despite knowing it was futile in such a small space, and then—not a single one of the gang seemed to notice him. Their eyes swept the cupboard, passing right over Harry, before they huffed and left. When they did Harry let out a relieved breath and dropped his chin to his chest, only to gasp in shock. For looking down at himself it was suddenly quite clear to Harry that somehow, he was invisible!

As with the ring's ability to been unseen, Harry had gone on to test his new powers of invisibility. He'd found that he could only do it when he wore the ring, and that all he need do was think very hard about being hidden, or being visible again, depending on which he wished. He'd tested it first with his fellow students, creeping about the school yard and waving unseen in people's faces. He'd then tried the teachers, and even slipped into the staff lunch room! Most daringly of all however, was when he risked sneaking about the Dursley home on Privet Drive, because he well knew that if he was caught doing something so freakish, and on _purpose_, he would be punished severely. And yet it worked a treat and not once was he seen—though, after one heart-stopping incident he did learn that he needed to be very quiet, because he could still be _heard_.

Harry didn't know where the ring had come from, how it came to be with him, or why it worked the way it did. But what he did know was that it was totally wicked, even despite the potential for getting him into trouble for the increase in odd thing happening. It wasn't until some months later that he discovered the other thing the ring could do.

..ooOOoo..

"Miss, miss, look I put a flower on it, because mum loves flowers. Her name is even a flower, did you know? It's Petunia."

"That's very good Dudley," the teacher complimented. "And what's this?"

"A space invader alien from my video game, because I thought it would look cool."

"I'm sure you mother will be very pleased."

As the teacher wandered off, Dudley shot a smug look in Harry's direction. Harry rolled his eyes, not particularly caring that his cousin had managed to gain the teacher's praise. After all, the flower Dudley had scribbled on his card really looked more like a cabbage to Harry, and really, though Aunt Petunia bought them when her baby boy demanded, Harry knew she wasn't personally fond of Dudley's video games, thinking them too violent. No, Dudley had just included the alien because he wanted to, not because he thought Aunt Petunia would like it. But that was Dudley to a tee, only caring about what made _him_ happy. Of course his parents gave in to his every whim and whine, so Harry reflected that it was Aunt Petunia's own fault if she didn't like her card.

"—and I'll probably get the freak to cook some breakfast," Dudley was bragging to his friends, and Harry tuned back in at hearing himself mentioned. "I'll take it up to mum with a flower from the garden or something, she really likes flowers you know, but she's a girl so that's why. And I'll take breakfast up to her in bed and she'll be so happy, I bet she'll buy me that new TV I want. And maybe that new video game. Probably even take me to that hamburger restaurant in town, the one that makes those quadruple chocolate Sundays, you know."

"Wow, I wish my mum was as cool as yours," Piers said jealously. "If I bothered to bring her breakfast, mine would probably just say thank you. Maybe if I was really lucky she'd let me off chores for a week, but that's it."

"Same," said Gordon. "Though, she might take me for ice cream, but not the quadruple chocolate Sundays."

"Chores?" Dudley sneered. "Wow, tough luck. I don't ever have chores. That's what the freak is for, after all." Then Dudley turned to Harry and gave him a mean grin. "Speaking of the freak, what are you even bothering with a card for? It's for _Mother's Day_ you know, so there's really no point. It's not like you have a mother to give it to." Dudley looked at his friends and told them, "His mum's dead, of course, and his dad too. Drunken layabouts they were, according to my dad. Apparently they got really, really drunk and went driving one night, and they _crashed_. Killed themselves, because of their—what does dad call it—oh yeah, their reckless irrasponsibity," he mispronounced, then gave Harry a smug, nasty look.

Harry felt his anger rising, but there were tears stinging at his eyes too. As Gordon and Piers sniggered at Dudley's words, his anger spiked and all of a sudden—fwoof! Dudley and companions screamed in fright, jumping back from the table. Each of their Mother's Day cards had suddenly gone up in flames. Harry knew well enough by now that it was almost certainly his own doing, especially as the ring had been sparking on his finger just before. Still, there was no _proof_, so he didn't think it was entirely fair that the teacher believed so easily Dudley's claim that he had done it, and Piers' words that he thought he saw matches in Harry's hands too.

Harry sat in the detention room during playtime, staring morosely out the window at all the other children, out there having fun. A cleared throat brought his attention to the front of the room, where his teacher sat behind a desk giving a pointed look. Harry sighed and turned back to writing his lines: 'I will not play with matches'. By the time he finished his wrist was aching, and he shook it out, trying to relieve the soreness. Even with the lines done, he knew he wouldn't be let out till class resumed—that was the way detention worked.

"I must have left it in the staff room," he heard the teacher mumble to herself as she looked through the papers she was working on. "Harry, can I trust you to stay put and not cause trouble while I step out for a moment?"

"Yes miss," he promised.

The teacher gave him a long, judging look, before nodding and leaving the room. Harry sighed again, and slipped his hand into his left pocket. He pulled out the card he had tucked away there and looked at it. He'd worked very hard at it, though he didn't know why. It wasn't like he had anyone to give it to—Dudley was right on that count. The teacher had suggested that he make his card out to Aunt Petunia, not knowing that Petunia would almost surely throw it in the trash if he tried. No, instead he'd made the card out to his own mum. She'd never see it, so there was really no point, but Harry couldn't resist. It was just that he'd recently learned what his mum's name had been, when Petunia had accidentally mentioned it in passing. Lily. Harry thought it a much nicer name than Petunia. And when the teacher handed out the blank cards Harry had, almost without thought, begun drawing a flower on the front of his card too: a lily.

He looked now at the slightly wobbly flower. He wasn't the best drawer, but he thought it had turned out okay. It was better than Dudley's cabbage flower at least. He opened the card and looked inside. Likewise, his handwriting wasn't the best, but it wasn't bad or anything, and at least he could spell properly, unlike Dudley. He traced the words he had written. 'Mum. I miss you. I wish I knew you. Happy Mother's Day. Love, Harry.' And it was true, he did wish he knew her, wished he knew all about her, that he could have always known her name rather than find out by accident when he was already in school.

"Lily," he said quietly as he absently fiddled with the ring, twisting it on his finger, a habit he'd fallen into. "Lily Potter."

"Harry?" an unfamiliar voice spoke. Harry looked up and gasped, jumping in his seat in shock, only to curse as his knees banged painfully against the underside of his desk. "Language young man," the stranger chided, but there was a soft look on her face.

"What are you?" he gasped.

The woman, for she was clearly female, stood before him, looking down with the sort of kind expression that Harry was unused to receiving. She was quite beautiful really, with dark red hair and bright green eyes a bit like his own, and she was wearing an odd sort of dress. But all this wasn't really important. Not, the important, most pressing fact was that she was _see-through_. Not all the way see-through of course, or he wouldn't be able to see her at all. Rather, she was visible and yet he could see the blackboard behind her, as though she was sort of there but not at the same time.

"What am I?" she asked. "Well, human, or I was. Now I suppose you'd call me something like a ghost."

"A ghost," Harry repeated dumbly.

"Not an actual ghost, since I did move on and I seem to have some colour to me. A spirit might be a better word. I'm not sure how I'm here, to be honest. Most importantly though," she smiled again, "I'm your mother."

Harry gasped, and just as he did, the door opened. He froze as the teacher looked towards him in query, and hurriedly hoped for—his mother?—well, the spirit at least, not to be seen, knowing it would raise all sorts of questions and probably get him into all sorts of trouble. He regretted his wish almost immediately as the spirit faded away. A lump seemed to lodge itself in his throat.

"All fine here Harry?"

"Yes miss," he choked out.

He turned to stare blankly in the air where the spirit had stood. What if—what if it really _had_ been his mother? He'd never seen a picture of her, so he didn't know what she looked like, but there had been a resemblance to Harry there, especially those eyes. So what if it _had_ been her, and he'd sent her away? What if that was his one-and-only miraculous chance to talk with his mum's ghost, or spirit, and he'd screwed it up. And for what? Nothing, that's what, because it was clear that like with the ring, only he could see her. The teacher had looked right in the spirit's direction, straight through her, as if nothing was there.

Harry bit his lip hard and blinked rapidly in an effort not to cry.

..ooOOoo..

For days afterwards, Harry tried to call his mother's spirit again. He tried concentrating very hard, or wishing with all he had, or trying to be as emotional as possible about the situation, since emotions did seem to be the cause of a lot of the odd things that happened. And all the while he would stare intently at his ring until it sparked, or even rubbed it like you would a genie's lamp, repeating over and over his mother's name. But nothing seemed to work!

Just as Harry started falling into depression, convinced that he really _had_ lost his only chance, he found the answer. And, as these things tended to go for Harry with his strange luck, he figured it out quite by accident just as he had given up hope. Moping in the garden as he fitfully tugged out weeds, his finger started to become irritated as dirt got caught beneath the ring and rubbed against his skin. Frowning, he had twisted the ring as he tried to brush away the dirt, when his eyes fell onto the bright yellow lilies in the garden, and he thought briefly of his mother again.

"Lily Potter," he murmured sadly.

"Hello again Harry."

Harry gasped and spun around. "_Mum_," he whispered in shocked awe.

It didn't make sense. Why did it work now when he'd been trying so hard for so long to no avail? Did it only work when he wasn't trying then? Did it only work by accident? Or maybe—like a bolt of lightning it hit him. The ring! Both times his mother had appeared, he'd not only been thinking of her, he'd also twisted his ring at the same time. Actually, he thought he might have twisted it when he sent her away too.

Thoughts about the ring were quickly swept aside however as the spirit, his _mother_, knelt down next to him.

"Let me get a look at you then. You've grown so much." She reached a hand out to cup his cheek, and her expression turned mournful as her hand fell through him. Harry felt as though a warm breeze had swept past him. "Of course, no touch." She seemed to shake off her sadness then, her expression turning fond again. "You look so much like James."

"James?" Harry asked. "Is that my dad's name?"

Lily gave him an odd look. "Of course it is, but how can you not know that? I don't doubt that Sirius has told you all about him."

"Who's Sirius?"

"Who's Sirius? But—hold up a moment Harry, this is important. Who's your guardian?" she asked him urgently, staring around the garden and up at the house with narrowed eyes. "If you're not with your godfather, then who's raising you?"

"Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia," he said glumly.

"I see," she said slowly, eyes narrowing further. "That is—not what I'd hoped." Her lips pursed then, and Harry was surprised to find himself reminded of Aunt Petunia. But then he supposed they _were_ sisters after all. "Alright. Okay." She said in an unnaturally calm tone, face blank, though her eyes seemed alight with some unnameable emotion. "I need you to answer some more questions for me Harry, but first, do you think you can call your father too?"

"I don't know," he said, surprised the idea had never occurred to him. "Let me try." He closed his eyes and wished, twisting his ring on his finger as he chanted, "James Potter, James Potter, James Potter."

"Whoa! Where am I?" a voice said, and Harry's eyes snapped open to land on the ghostly image of a man that looked very much like Harry himself, only grown up. "Lily, there you are! You disappeared all of a sudden again and I was worried."

Harry continued staring as the man, his _father_, stepped up to embrace his wife. Those were his _parents_, Harry thought, and they were together, here with him.

"James, I think you should meet someone," Lily said, tugging the man down to Harry's level. "James, meet our son."

"Our son?" Hazel eyes fell on Harry, and widened behind glasses. "Harry?" he whispered. Harry nodded, and a joyous grin stole across James's face. "Harry!" he cried and threw himself at the boy for a hug—and fell right through him. "Oof!"

Harry squeaked in surprise and jumped at the unexpected actions, and as a gust of warmth passed through him. He turned to look at his dad as James rolled over and sat up, glasses askew, looking put out. Lily sat beside her husband and linked her fingers through his as she explained.

"We can't touch James, we're just spirits here."

"Oh," James said in a quiet voice, staring at Harry sadly. And then Harry was feeling sad too, realising he'd just been deprived of his first ever hug from his dad, or at least the first he could remember. "Hey, but wait," James said, frowning. "If we can't touch, then why does my nose hurt from falling face-first into the ground? And for that matter, how are we sitting on the ground? Shouldn't we just fall through, and keep falling out the other side of the world."

"You know, that's a good question. I'm not sure why the ground hurt you," Lily admitted. "One of those strange quirks of magic I expect. As for why we're not falling, well, we don't have mass, do we, so we're not subject to gravity. And even if we were, then we'd only fall as far as the centre of the world, not all the way through, because past that point we'd be going in opposition to the gravitational pull." Silence followed as James just stared at his wife with an uncomprehending expression. "Never mind," she said with exasperation. "It's to do with physics."

"Oh, signs," James said with sudden understanding.

"That's _science_."

"Signs, science, it's all the same—Muggle stuff. Ow!" James cried and pouted, rubbing the back of his head. "You hit me!"

"And I'll do it again, if you spout those sorts of ignorant wizardly ideas around my son, to say nothing of what I'll do to you if he picks up on your ingrained prejudice."

"I am not prejudiced! I'm a Gryffindor not a Slytherin."

"Yes, you are, but it's unintentional and not meant hatefully, so can I forgive you. _Provided_, that is," Lily added with narrowed eyes, "that you don't go passing it on to Harry."

"Oh, my fair Lily-flower," James cried dramatically, feigning a swoon into her lap, "I swear to try to curb such unfortunate behaviour from now and evermore."

The boy in question sat silently, drinking in the interactions going on before him. To think that not too long ago he'd not even known his parents' names. Now he knew their names, and what they looked like, the sound of their voices, and even as he watched he was getting an idea of their personalities and how their relationship worked. A small voice in the back of his mind said that this made no sense, it couldn't be real, and maybe Harry had just gone mad. He told the voice to shut up, because frankly if it meant believing that his parents were with him, then he much preferred being mad to being sane.

"Get up, you fool," Lily ordered, but there was a smile on her face and she leaned over to peck James on the lips once he was seated again. Harry blushed at the gesture, and then Lily turned her attention to him once more. "Now," she said quietly, "Harry, would you mind telling us a bit about yourself and your guardians? I think James and I need to know."

"Well, I live here with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia—"

"You live with the _Dursleys_?" James cried, appalled. "But Sirius—"

"Hush, don't interrupt," Lily chided. "Go on Harry."

"Um, okay, well I live here with them, on Privet Drive and …"

* * *

**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


	3. 03: Return to Magic

**Posted**: 28 April, 2012

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: An unexpected find in the attic of Grimmauld Place changes the course of Harry's life. Except not, because it's not _this_ Harry who'll be affected. Rather, everything is about to change for another Harry, from long ago and far away.

* * *

**03: Return to Magic**

"Up! Get up and make breakfast, and don't you _dare_ let it burn. I want everything perfect for Diddy's birthday!"

"I'll be out in a second!" Harry called through a yawn.

Harry sat up and tugged off his pyjamas, then tugged up a pair of oversized trousers, securing them with a belt he'd made of a length of rope, before pulling on a ragged shirt that he practically drowned in. Thus attired in his very best Dudley hand-me-downs, he left his cupboard and headed for the kitchen to see to breakfast. As he settled in at the stove, Harry took a moment to roll his eyes at the huge pile of gifts on the table.

A year ago, he'd have felt a pang of jealousy and sadness at the sight of Dudley's birthday haul. But a year ago, he hadn't gotten to know his parents, who had seemed to make it their mission to smother him with as much affection as possible in hopes to, as his mother phrased it, "ensure you're a happy and well-adjusted boy, in spite of those despicable Muggles' appalling attempts to stifle your potential and cause you misery." His dad would usually respond to this by pointing out that the 'despicable Muggle' comment sounded rather like prejudice. Lily would always insist that it was nothing of the sort, that she had no problems with Muggles in general, and was just stating a fact because the Dursleys were both Muggles and despicable excuses for human beings. His mother, Harry had noted, often talked like a dictionary or an encyclopaedia, but she wasn't snobby about it. And his father, he'd also noted, had a tendency towards the dramatic. He also, for reasons Harry didn't quite understand, seemed to like trying to rile his wife up and getting her to rant.

So no, Harry wasn't _too_ jealous about Dudley's many gifts. After all, Harry owned the best thing in the whole world: a ring that, among other things, let him talk to his parents even though they'd died. He wouldn't trade that for a million of Dudley's presents, and that realisation allowed him to watch the drama of his cousin's tantrum at his number of presents, and finagling of Aunt Petunia into buying more, with little more than exasperation and scorn. Lily was a much better mother than Petunia, Harry thought. If Dudley tried that sort of thing on her, Lily would have sent the boy to his room, or even gotten James to take him over his knee. Harry knew this for sure because she had commented on it often enough, between tutting disapprovingly at her sister and brother-in-law's parenting attitudes. It always made Harry grin to imagine it really happing, Dudley getting told off and spanked for his usual atrocious behaviour, rather than indulged and coddled.

"Bad news Vernon," Petunia said grimly as she returned from the telephone. "Mrs Figg just called and she's broken her leg, so she can't take the boy today. He'll have to come with us."

"What?" Dudley yelped. "No, he can't! Daddy, tell her he can't. I don't want the freak to come with us. It'll ruin the whole day!" he fake-sobbed.

But, to Dudley's dismay, there was nothing for it. Since neither Vernon nor Petunia felt it a safe idea to leave Harry at home unsupervised, or to let him wait alone in their brand new car, Harry ended up accompanying the family, and Dudley's friend Piers Polkiss, on Dudley's traditional birthday outing. This year, they went to the zoo.

As he trailed behind the group, watching Dudley and Piers chatter as Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia watched on fondly, Harry felt the urge to call on his own parents. It would be nice, he reflected, to have them there for the trip with him. Like a Potter family outing. Unfortunately, there were limitations to his ring when it came to calling on his parents' spirits. Or rather, a limitation on the spirits themselves. It was because they no longer belonged in the mortal world, Lily had explained, that the longer they lingered the more they yearned to return to the peace of the afterlife. It helped, they both assured him, that while they did belonged in the afterlife, there was still true joy for them to be found on the mortal plane, being that they were there together to visit with their dear son. And so, while there were no real limits to how long Harry could keep them with him, he forced himself into the habit of only calling them a few hours every couple of days, usually when he got time alone so they could talk freely. Any longer and harry could see the strain on them, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt his parents because he got greedy and wouldn't let them go.

And so it wasn't till later that evening that Harry called his parents. Their spirits faded quietly into existence inside his cupboard. They took in the surrounds with their usual disapproval. Time had not at all diminished their anger at where their son was forced to sleep, or his situation at the Dursleys in general, though they had learned to restrain themselves from tracking either Vernon or Petunia down to yell at them unnoticed.

"What's wrong bambi?" James asked. Harry flushed, feeling very glad that only he could see and hear his parents. It would be beyond embarrassing if anyone else overheard the sappy nickname his father had for him, and refused to stop using. Even with the meaning behind it explained—the whole: son-of-a-stag thing—he still couldn't help but equate it with Petunia calling Dudley her Diddykins or something similarly soppy. "You look like you've been hanging out with a Dementor."

"Dementor?"

"A magical being that, among other things, causes depression," Lily provided. "And he's right, you do look a bit depressed."

"I'm grounded to my cupboard again," he said glumly. "For a _month_."

"A month?" James demanded, instantly furious. "Those—"

"Utter bastards," Lily said with uncharacteristic profanity, earning a raised eyebrow from James along with his agreeing nod. "What for?"

"Well, it was Dudley's birthday, you see," Harry said, and then went on to explain the zoo visit, finishing with, "…so then it snapped a bit at Dudley's heels, just playing, and said 'Brazil here I come, thanks amigo' and slithered away. Only, Dudley claimed it tried to eat him or squeeze him to death or something. And then, on the way home, Piers just _had_ to say he'd seen me talking to it. I've never seen Uncle Vernon get so purple. I tried telling him it was an accident but he didn't care. He chucked me in here and said I wasn't allowed out but for toilet trips for a month. It's the longest time I've ever gotten!"

"The _snake_ said?" James repeated dumbly.

"Oh yeah, that was weird. I didn't know snakes and wizards could talk to each other," Harry said. "It's sort of cool. Can we talk to other animals too?"

"Oh my," Lily said faintly. "That's unexpected."

"What?" Harry asked, nervous at their reactions. "What's wrong?"

"Well, nothing's _wrong_ exactly, only—"

"My bambi's a Parselmouth!" James squawked. "How did this happen?"

"James," Lily said sternly, smacking the back of his head and ignoring the yelp of pain that followed. "As you have your little breakdown, do _try_ to remember the fragile self-esteem and self-worth issues those despicable Muggles have inflicted on our son."

"What? What do you—" James cut himself off, finally noticing Harry's hunched posture and uncertain expression. He slumped and leaned forward to rest his chin on Harry's head and wrap his arms around him, or at least position himself as if he were. He was a bit off though and a warmth Harry had grown to find both familiar and comforting spread over his head and torso at the points of contact, causing him to relax. "Harry, hey, don't mind me, your old man's an idiot sometimes. It's all fine. Just, like your mum said, a bit unexpected."

"Why?"

"Well, Parseltongue—that's snake language, and a Parselmouth is someone who speaks it—it's a pretty rare talent."

"So not all wizards can do it?"

"Nope. And unfortunately the few famous ones who did were—well, they weren't very nice, and so it's got a bit of a bad rep."

"Oh. Any that you've told me about so far?"

"Well—er—that is to say—" James fumbled.

"Voldemort was the last known one," Lily said honestly and Harry must have looked horrified because she attempted to cup his cheek, making his face feel warm. "Hush, it's fine. Knowing Parseltongue doesn't make you a bad person, or make us love you any less," she told him, and a very different sort of warmth filled Harry, as it always did when they told him they loved him. "People make their own decisions, choose to be good or evil, and their abilities don't take that choice away from them. There's nothing wrong with you being a Parselmouth, because without or without the ability you're still a good boy Harry."

"Of _course_ there's nothing wrong with it," James continue loudly, "despite what my shocked stupor before might've made you think. I just reacted without thinking. I was surprised and confused, since Parseltongue's supposed to be a hereditary trait."

"Hereditary?"

"You know James, that's a good point," Lily said thoughtfully. "Hmm, I wonder."

"Wonder what?" James asked.

"I mean, we know that with the magical community being so small, a lot of the pureblood families intermarried over the centuries. It's possible you had a Parselmouth some generations back—"

"I think I'd remember that!"

"Some generations back," Lily repeated with a quelling stare, "_but_ either the connection was so obscure, or so long ago, that it's been forgotten about. The other possibility is my line."

"But you're Muggle-born, Lily."

"I know that, but there was this interesting theory I heard in my latter Hogwarts years. Some wizard postulated that magic couldn't just pop out of nowhere, and so Muggle-borns couldn't really be Muggle-borns but in reality, were descendants of Squibs. The line was just lost in the Muggle world long enough that we've forgotten our true history. I always meant to do some research on my family tree to see if anything turned up, but with the war I was so busy, I never got the time." She looked at Harry. "Perhaps you should look into that Harry. It could be interesting."

Harry nodded. It did sound interesting.

"In the meantime," James said, "why don't you kick back and let me tell you about a little story involving a trampoline, a pine tree, and a giant vat of custard."

"Not one of your Marauders exploits again!"

"But my Lily-flower, our dearest baby boy has been most cruelly and unjustly punished, sentenced to isolation and mind-numbing boredom," James said in flowery prose. "Surely you will not prevent me from easing his suffering by regaling him with tales of most noble mischief and adventure."

"There's nothing noble about the incident in question," Lily snorted. "I do remember it you know, and the fact that my hair smelled like custard for a week."

"Quick Harry," James whispered loudly. "Use the eyes, like I taught you." Harry hesitated, unsure, but James nodded encouragingly. He turned to his mother and poked out his lower lip, opening his eyes wide and looking at her pleadingly, as his dad had secretly taught him. "Cruel Lily, how can you say no to such an adorable face?" James asked, gesturing grandly at the face in question.

"You are _such_ a bad influence James Potter," Lily said with amusement. She waved a hand. "Fine, fine, tell your story."

Harry grinned and settled in to listen. His dad told the _best_ stories.

..ooOOoo..

"Get the mail boy."

"Make Dudley get it," Harry retorted, though he knew he'd end up being forced to go anyway.

"Hit him with your Smelting's stick son."

Harry sighed, dodged the eager swipe Dudley sent his way, and headed for the front door. Well, he was still being treated like a servant, but at least he'd been let out of the cupboard this morning, _finally_. Reaching the front entry, he picked up the letters under the mail slot and turned to head back to the kitchen when one of them caught his eye. He froze, and quickly twisted his ring.

"Look," he whispered before either of his guests could speak.

"Hurry up boy!" Vernon could be heard yelling. "What're you doing, checking for letter bombs?" he asked, then chuckled.

James scoffed. "The lard ball thinks he's funny, doesn't he? Well, I'll say now that—"

"James, look!" Lily cried with a bright smile, pointing at the letter in Harry's hand. "It's from—"

"Hogwarts!" James shouted as he looked closer. "Your letter finally came. Congratulations!"

"Honestly boy, get a move on!" Vernon yelled, more impatient this time.

"Quick, hide it," Lily said urgently.

"Hide it?"

"I can just imagine them taking it away and destroying it, trying to keep you from Hogwarts. After all, they've spent the last decade trying to hide the existence of the wizarding word from you. I doubt they plan on giving up easily," she explained. There was, from down the hall, the sound of a chair scraping back. "Hurry, hide it!"

"In your pocket!" James quickly suggested. "That big shirt will cover it. Now kneel down as if you're tying up your shoes."

Harry hurried to follow the advice, heart beating frantically.

"Boy, what are you doing?" Petunia asked suspiciously as reached him. "What was taking so long?"

"Sorry Aunt Petunia," Harry said. "I saw my laces were undone and—"

"Never mind," she said impatiently. "Just give me those."

"I think she suddenly remember you should be getting a letter soon," Lily commented as her sister snatched the mail and flipped through it rather frantically, before sighing in relief, pinning Harry with one last glare, and returning to the kitchen. "You must be hungry. Why don't you go have breakfast and call us again later when we can talk?"

Harry nodded and let them fade away.

..ooOOoo..

"You ready?"

"I'm telling you Lily, this won't work. You need a wand, everyone knows that."

"Harry, pay no attention to your father, just give it a go."

Harry nodded and, after taking one last look to make sure nobody was around, even though he'd been assured charms would prevent Muggles from noticing, he threw his right hand out toward the road and thought hard about needing transport. It wasn't difficult really, imagining he wanted a way to get far from Privet Drive and the Dursley. For a moment nothing happened.

"See Lily," James said smugly, sauntering out onto the road. "No wand, no bu—"

BANG!

James gave a surprisingly high-pitched squeal, and raced back to the sidewalk, emerging from the gaudy purple triple-decker bus that had run—well, 'through him' was possibly the best description. James frantically checked himself over for injuries, and sighed in relief to find none.

"See James," Lily mimicked in an equally smug tone. "What was that about how it wouldn't work? Also, you screamed like a little girl."

"I did _not_!" James cried, with a look of great offence.

Harry couldn't help but laugh at the whole spectacle, but cut himself off as the doors to the bus opened. An elderly, drab-look witch looked down at him.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard," the woman said in a supremely bored tone, clearly reciting a much-used speech. "Just stick out your wand hand, step on board and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Maggie Owens, and I will be your conductor this morning. Where can we take you today?"

"The Leaky Cauldron," Harry responded as he'd been coached.

"That'll be eleven Sickles. Thirteen if you want hot chocolate, and fifteen will get you a hot water bottle and a toothbrush."

Harry suddenly panicked. Sickles? What were they?

"It's alright Harry. Just tell her you'll be paying in Muggle currency," Lily said soothingly.

"I'm, um, paying with Muggle currency?" Harry said, though it came out as more of a question. "And just the basic fare, please—no hot chocolate or anything else."

"Right, just a moment," Maggie said, finally a hint of emotion in her voice: irritation, to be specific. She reached for a dusty looking device—it seemed to be an overly complicated cross between a calculator and a mechanical type-writer—and pecked at a few keys until it gave a loud ding! "Then that'll be three pounds and twenty-four pence."

Harry handed over a five pound note. He'd stolen it from his aunt's purse at the direction of his mother and with the help of his invisibility powers—though, Lily had also been sure to stress that it was an exceptional situation, and that if Harry even _thought_ of stealing under normal circumstances she would be very disappointed in him, which was more than discouragement enough for Harry. The conductor, after consulting her device once more, then squinting at a handful of Muggle coins suspiciously, gave him his change. Harry boarded and took a seat.

"Better get a grip of that pole," James advised.

Harry did so, and not a moment too soon as the bus gave a BANG! and took off with a jarring lurch. Sometime later it came to a skidding stop.

"Diagon Alley!" Maggie announced, somehow managing to shout without losing her normal monotone.

Harry carefully peeled back his fingers from their desperate grip, and quickly disembarked. The bus took off again at once with another loud BANG!

"I still can't believe it worked," James commented, looking in the direction the triple-decker had disappeared.

"Well, I admit I wasn't entirely sure it would either," Lily said. "But I have a theory about that ring of Harry's. The way it makes his accidental magic act up, and sparks when he gets emotional—it reminds me a bit of the way a wand acts in an untrained hand."

"Huh, it is sort of the same isn't it? But the ring's clearly not a wand."

"No, but maybe it's some other sort of magical focus. Never mind that though. You can see the Leaky Cauldron, can't you Harry?"

"Yeah, it's right in front of me."

"Good, let's head in then."

"Remember to keep your head down though," James reminded him. "If you're even half as famous as some of the wizards and witches who've passed on recently tell us, the last thing we want is to incite a riot." He paused, considering. "Although—"

"No," Lily said sharply. "Ignore your dad Harry. He's having one of his stupid moments. We do _not_ want to bring a mob down on you when neither of us is capable of defending you if they get overly enthusiastic."

"Ah, you may have a point there," James admitted sheepishly. "Let's stick to the head down idea. And maybe brush your hair forward a bit too, to make sure your scar's covered—supposed to be a dead giveaway that, from what we've heard."

"And once we're in, walk straight through and out the back door."

Harry nodded and stepped forward, entering the dim pub. It was like stepping back in time, and only the prodding words of his parents prevented Harry from stopping to stare and drawing attention to himself. The back door led him, unexpectedly, to a tiny dead-ended courtyard.

"What now?"

"Damn, you'll need to go back in and ask Tom to open the way for you," James muttered.

"The ring, remember?" Lily reminded. "If it acts like a wand then—"

"Oh, good point. Here Harry, tap these bricks in the order I point to them." Harry did so then gasped as the wall opened to reveal an amazing scene. "Welcome to Diagon Alley, bambi," James said with a grin, and for once Harry didn't so much as crinkle his nose at the nickname, too busy staring at awe.

"Come on, Gringotts is this way," Lily reminded them.

The wizard bank was a towering white marble building, with roman columns and great double doors inscribed with a poetic but dire warning against thieves. It would have been a grand and magnificent sight, if not for the comical way it tilted this way and that at various levels. Nevertheless, despite the leaning, it still left an amazing impression. Even more impressive were the short but fierce looking goblins. Harry had never seen a non-human being before and had to make the conscious effort not to gawp.

"Next," the teller snapped, and peered down at Harry disdainfully when he stepped up. "What?"

Harry just blinked a bit at first, taken aback by the sheer rudeness. Clearly, the bankers of the wizarding world were nothing like the professional, proper and polite ones in Muggle banks. If a Muggle teller acted this way, Harry knew, they could face a warning at least, or firing at worst. And yet, not a single customer had given a second glance to the rude goblin, despite the fact that it had spoken loudly enough for others to overhear, so the behaviour must be fairly normal.

"Tell him you need a key reissue," James told him, and Harry dutifully repeated the words.

"Fine," the goblin said shortly, then turned over his shoulder and shouted, in a snarly sort of way, "Griphook!" Another goblin—younger looking but just a fierce, though not _quite_ so scowly—stepped up. "Key reissue for this wizard. See to it."

Griphook nodded, jerked his head at Harry, then turned and walked away. Harry hurried to follow, assuming that was what he was supposed to do, and was surprised at the quick pace the goblin set given his short legs. In a cramped office Griphook withdrew a form, a plain looking quill, an inkwell, and a black quill that seemed particularly wicked, setting them all on the desk before Harry.

"Fill in this."

"Use the goose feather quill first," James said.

"The lighter one," Lily added.

Harry nodded and picked it up, looking over the form. It was very short and to the point. He filled in the current date, his name, his date of birth, and the vault number—687, according to his parents—and then reached the bottom where he was supposed to sign his name. Before he could do so, Griphook cleared his throat. Harry looked up to see the goblin pointing at the menacing black quill. A glance in his parents showed them nodding so he swapped over.

"It's a blood quill though," James said warningly, "so it'll hurt."

"What's a blood quill?" Harry asked aloud without thought, earning an odd look from Griphook.

"_That_ is, obviously," the goblin told him.

"It'll—well, it _carves_ into the back of your hand so as to write with your blood, rather than using ink," James said with a grimace and Harry's eyes went wide. "Don't worry, it's painful but it'll be over quickly. And you need to sign in blood so it can confirm your identity, as well as in confirmation of all the details you filled in. Gringotts forms are charmed so you can't lie if you write in blood, you see. From what I've heard, anything written that's not true just won't seep into the parchment—when it dries it flakes off instead."

"Blood quills are barbaric is what they are," Lily muttered. "You'd think some witch or wizard would have invented a less painful way to extract blood for contracts." She sighed. "Your father's right though—it _is_ necessary."

Gathering his courage Harry started to sign. He winced and bit his lip as the back of his hand felt like it was being gouged into with a knife. He hissed and bit his lip as he continued determinedly on and, the moment he finished the last 'r', he threw the quill down and cradled his hand close. There on the back of his hand could faintly be read 'Harry Potter', but the lines were fine, more of a scratch than anything, and it wasn't even properly bleeding. Harry couldn't help but thinking it had caused an awful lot of pain for such a mild injury.

"Harry Potter?" Griphook muttered with a trace of surprise, and looking up Harry saw him glance at him with a raised brow before returning to his work. The goblin frowned suspiciously at the form before blowing across it, then nodding as the blood dried into the parchment. "All in order." Griphook then took the form and ambled over to a wall with a slot Harry had previously not noticed, and pushed the paper through. He stood tapping his foot impatiently for a moment before there was a ding, and a something small and shiny came flying back out. Griphook caught it deftly and turned, handing it over to Harry. "Your new key. I am obliged to inform you that with a key reissue, as per protocol, the locks were changed, and any former keys are no longer valid for your vault. Any other business today?"

"Thanks," Harry said with a nod, reflecting that that was the most he'd heard any goblin say all at once. "And I'd like to get some money from my vault."

"Follow me," Griphook ordered, brusque once more.

..ooOOoo..

Harry stumbled down the bank steps, still dazed. His parents watched on with fond amusement.

"I'm bloody rich," he whispered out, not for the first time.

"Three cheers for old family money," James said, nodding.

"Rich," he said again. "So much gold. Piles and piles."

"Yes Harry, but don't go thinking that means you can be irresponsible with it," Lily warned. "Like your father said, it's old family money, and since your ancestors left it to you, it's only right you try and leave something for your children and any generations to come."

That made sense, seemed fair, and so he nodded. "Alright. So, where to first?"

"Trunk, otherwise you'll be dragging shopping bags all over the alley."

..ooOOoo..

It was the stop, and purchase, Harry had been most looking forward to. As he stepped in the shop the bell tinkled over the door. It was dark inside, and dusty, and the air seemed alive somehow—the hair at the back of his neck prickled, as if he could sense the magic in this place.

"And who might you be then?" came a whispery voice from behind Harry, causing him to jump and turn in surprise.

"Ollivander hasn't changed a bit I see," James laughed. "Still creepy."

Suddenly the old man froze, a furrow appearing between his brows as his head cocked to one side and his eyes glazed, staring rather unnervingly in the direction in which James's spirit stood. Harry's heart sped up. Surely the man, this Ollivander, couldn't see or hear his dad—right? Harry knew from his parents that 'raising the dead' was almost unheard of, especially in the way he could do, and certainly would be viewed with suspicion if anyone knew. He had a terrifying thought that if Ollivander knew, he might tell, and Harry could get sent to jail for Dark Magic. Or worse, they might find and take the ring away from him, and he'd lose his parents again.

"Can he—" James started to ask, staring wide-eyed at Ollivander, whose attention sharped as he spoke.

"_Shush_!" Lily hissed, wrapping a hand over her husband's mouth. "Be quiet and be still."

At Lily's words, Ollivander's gaze then slipped in her direction. Harry thought for sure the sound of his pounding heart must be audible, so on edge he was. There was a long moment of tense silence, where James and Lily stayed perfectly frozen and made sure not to utter a sound. Finally, Ollivander hummed and shook his head.

"I could have sworn—never mind, never mind, just age finally catching up to me I suppose," the old man muttered, then turned his attention onto Harry. "And you must be—ah yes, Harry Potter. You resemble your father keenly, though your eyes are a mirror of your mother's," he said, leaning disconcertingly close to peer into said green eyes. "I remember it like it was yesterday, you know, when they came for their own wands. Your mother, she was matched to a nice willow wand with a unicorn hair core. Good for Charms. Your father's though was mahogany and more suited to Transfiguration." Ollivander then leaned in, if possible, closer still. Harry valiantly resisted the urge to back away. "And that must be where it happened." A spindly finger traced over Harry's scar and the boy tensed. "I sold the weapon that did it you know. Yew it was, with a phoenix feather core. A powerful wand, and if I'd known what it was going out into the world to do—well, if wishes were Abraxan, as they say, we would all ride the clouds. But never mind, never mind, you're here for a wand yourself if I'm not much mistaken. Let's see then." The man finally backed up, much to Harry's relief, and pulled out a tape measure. "Which is your wand arm?"

Harry forced himself not to glance questioningly at his parents. He was still nervous about the perceptive, not to mention creepy, Mr Ollivander. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to his spirit companions again while still in the wand maker's presence. And so, Harry gave his best guess in response to the question.

"I'm not sure what a 'wand arm' is, but I'm right-handed?"

The wand maker nodded and started measuring his right arm—shoulder to fingertip, hand width, elbow to wrist, and several other places—before he moved away, starting to pull down boxes from the walls. The tape measure though continued on with its business all on its own, propelled, no doubt, by magic. Harry stared at it strangely as the places it measured grew odder and odder. He was staring cross-eyed as it measured the distance between his nostrils when Ollivander returned, piling boxes on the counter.

"Enough," he said, and the tape crumbled lifelessly to the floor. From one of the boxes he withdrew a stick of wood. "Here Mr Potter, try this one."

Feeling rather stupid, Harry gave it a wave—and had it promptly snatched away. From there followed a very, very long procession of many, many wands. Ollivander seemed excited at having a tricky customer. Finally though, the wand maker stopped, stared at Harry very intently, and disappeared into the far depths of the store. When he returned he was carry another wand box, but cradled it with a sort of gravitas.

"Perhaps, perhaps." Another sharp look was shot at Harry, before Ollivander carefully took this next wand from its box and held it out to Harry. "Holly and phoenix feather Mr Potter. Let's see if this might not be what we were looking for."

Harry reached for the wand, nervous at the look of anticipation on Ollivander's face—a look which promptly fell as Harry waved the wand and received no more reaction than any of the others had given.

"Not that one either then?" he asked, rather stating the obvious.

"No—I thought that perhaps—but no, that's not it." Ollivander tucked the wand back in its box and then, rather than go searching for more once again, turned to Harry with a considering expression. "Mr Potter, I have a suspicion—a suspicion that there is no wand here for you."

"What?" Harry cried. Was the man suggesting that there had been a mistake or something, and he wasn't really a wizard after all? "But there has to be. I need one for Hogwarts!"

"It is very rare, has happened only thrice in fact that I recall, but sometimes a customer will come to me who I simply cannot match to a wand. For one, it turned out the young witch had been sneaking her late grandmother's wand for some years, under her parents' noses. It is the wand that chooses the wizard, you see Mr Potter, and the witch's wand in question was a possessive sort, had bonded faithfully to the girl, and my other wands could sense that and so none would match with her." Ollivander shook his head, chuckling. "Her parents as I recall were torn between rebuking their daughter for her sneaking, and tearful pride that she'd matched to the wand of her grandmother, who all had been quite fond of before her passing."

"I see," Harry said, thinking of the ring on his finger that seemed to act like a wand. Was that the issue here then? Had his ring bonded to him and would let no other wand do the same? He hoped not. How would he explain that without giving his the secret away, and risking the loss of his parents? "What about the other two?" he asked desperately, hoping for an out.

"Ah, the other two, that's the thing." And then, yet again, Ollivander was staring at him unnervingly. "The other two Mr Potter, possessed a rather rare and unique magical talent. They demonstrated a proficiency, or rather a disposition, for wandless magic."

Harry stared. "Wandless magic?" he repeated.

"Yes, indeed. I would like you to try an experiment, Mr Potter. I would like you to extent the Jupiter finger of your wand hand—"

"Jupiter finger?" Harry interrupted to ask.

"I believe the Muggle-borns call it the point finger—yes, that one. Now extend it toward that empty box there on my counter. Now, I want you to move your finger like so, with a swish and a flick, and say 'Wingardium Leviosa'. Imagine, as you do, the box rising and floating."

Harry was feeling a bit unsure about all this, but decided it couldn't hurt to try. Besides, the surreptitious glance he'd sent towards his parents showed them watching with keen curiosity, and Lily had even nodded her head ever so slightly in encouragement. He turned his full focus to the box and concentrated, imagining it floating.

"Wingardium Leviosa," he said, copying the pronunciation and finger movements as precisely as he could. "Whoa!" he gasped as the ring on his hand warmed and tingled and the box on the counter rose, ever so slightly, and somewhat jerkily, before plopping back down as he got distracted. "Did I just—"

"Indeed Mr Potter, it seems so. Well, you'll need a blank then I daresay."

"A blank what?"

"Here," Ollivander said, showing him a box with another wand, which he had pulled from beneath the counter. "It's a perfectly mundane branch, possessing no magical conductivity whatsoever, but carved as a wand. I keep but a few on hand, and rarely have need to sell them."

"What do I need it for though?"

"Most accounts of wandless wizards, though there aren't many, cite that it is easier to learn using a prop. The actions are more visible that way, and thus it is easier to spot flaws in the wand movements when you're learning. Just be sure to pick the 'Jupiter erect' wand grip as your standard."

Harry made an intuitive leap. "Pointer finger out?" he guessed.

Ollivander nodded. "That way when you switch to casting without the prop, you're already in the habit of pointing the Jupiter finger for casting. I'm almost certain one of the first year Hogwarts texts covers wand grips—_The Standard Book of Spells_, I think it was," he said as he wrapped the box with its blank wand in brown paper and handed it over. "That will be ten sickles."

As Harry left the shop, his parents slipping out behind him, he didn't notice Ollivander's watching him go. He didn't see the way that those silver eyes, quizzical but glazed once again, strayed unconsciously towards the invisible spirits that Ollivander couldn't quite perceive. He didn't notice the man frown and shake his head and mutter, somewhat ironically, "There's something odd about that boy," before dismissing his curiosity and returning to his work.

..ooOOoo..

The moment the door shut behind them, Lily spun to face the other two.

"Was it just me, or could he tell we were there?"

"Never mind that," James said, eyes wide. "Harry's a wandless wizard? Ow! What was that for?"

"You were having another stupid moment dear. I was trying to knock that loose screw back into place, hopefully get the cogs running properly again."

"Screw? Cogs?" James asked with confusion. "Are they more Muggle signs?"

"_Science_ James, and no, they're—never mind. I think the reason Harry couldn't match a wand is because of the ring."

"You think it really is like a wand then?" Harry asked loudly enough to be heard, but quietly enough not to be _over_heard and thus earn raised brows from passers-by, who would think him talking to himself, as he looked down at his finger.

"It seems more likely than you being a wandless wizard. Plenty more people can cast limited wandless magic than most people think, but exclusively? No, that's about as rare as—"

"Parseltongue?" James asked cheekily and laughed as the 'look' he received. "Sorry Lily. You're mum's probably right though Harry, I just didn't think of it."

"Is it _a lot_ like Parseltongue?" Harry queried hesitantly. "Wandless magic, I mean. Do people think it's a Dark ability?"

"Merlin no, it's the opposite really. Or, well not opposite exactly. Wandless magic's not really seen as Light _or_ Dark, just as the mark of a powerful wizard. People will probably be impressed."

"I don't know—do I really want to get attention about it? What if people start wondering and questioning, and maybe even someone figures out about the ring? I don't them to take it from me, or I'll never see you both again. Until I die, that is."

James sobered. "That's a good point. Maybe you should keep it quiet? There's no way in hell I want to leave you alone again after the situation you've ended up in since we died. Honestly, the _Dursleys_? What was anyone thinking leaving you with _them_?"

"You should get in the habit of using that wand Ollivander supplied," Lily said. "And not just for the ease of learning that he mentioned either. If you always use it and never mention it's a blank—"

"They'll never know I'm supposed to be doing things wandless," Harry said.

"Exactly. Now, about Ollivander noticing we were there—"

"Well, he's a wand maker," James said, as if that explained everything. Both his wife and son gave him blank looks and he smacked his forehead. "Sorry, I forget sometimes that Muggle-raised don't know some things that are just taken for granted. The thing about wand makers, see, is that they're always a bit odd and perceptive, and usually see and feel things normal wizards don't. Have to be, don't they? How else do they figure what cores go with what woods and what customers would suit what wands? There's an intuition to it apparently. Most wand fittings Ollivander will usually only go through a handful maybe, before finding the right one."

"He found mine of the fourth try," Lily mused reminiscently.

"And I got mine of the fifth. And that's only three or four misses out of—how many wands do you suppose he has in stock—hundreds, maybe thousands? So yeah, wand makers have a way of seeing things other people don't. Still, I don't think he _truly_ saw us or anything, so much as sensed something different was going on, because when we went quiet he looked like he thought he'd imagined things."

"It did seem that way, didn't it," Lily agreed.

Harry was relieved, and subconsciously rubbed his ring, almost petting it. It warmed on his finger and he smiled. No, it was safe for now, and his parents wouldn't be taken away.

* * *

**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


	4. 04: Starting Hogwarts

**Posted**: 10 May, 2012

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: An unexpected find in the attic of Grimmauld Place changes the course of Harry's life. Except not, because it's not _this_ Harry who'll be affected. Rather, everything is about to change for another Harry, from long ago and far away.

* * *

**04: Starting Hogwarts**

"—_packed_ with Muggles of course. What was the platform number again?" a woman's voice asked loudly.

"Nine and three-quarters!" a little girl piped up.

"That's right Ginny."

That clearly being the talk of magical folk, what with the Muggles comment and mention of the platform he himself was heading for, Harry turned his head in the direction the voices had come from. As he approached the platform barrier and the heavy crowd inexplicably thinned—he wondered if there was magic at work there, keeping the entrance somewhat clear—a family of redheads appeared from the other direction. He quickly came to a stop before his trolley could crash into that of a taller, older boy who strode a little ahead of the group.

"Sorry," Harry quickly apologised. "Almost ran into you there. Hogwarts too, I take it?"

"Quite alright," the boy said in a pompous sort of tone, as if granting Harry some great boon with his forgiveness, and pointedly straightened an already straight badge on his shirt that showed a silver P. "And yes, Hogwarts, naturally. I don't recognise you though, so you must be a first year. I happen to be a prefect, you know, and—"

"Oh, are you _really_ Percy?" a slightly shorter, stockier redhead asked with feigned shock. "George me lad, did you know our Percy was a prefect?"

"Surely not!" cried another boy dramatically, who looked so precisely identical to the one who had just spoken that Harry momentarily wondered if he was seeing double, before mentally smacking himself for not realising they must be twins. "How could I? It's not like—oh wait, he might have mentioned it."

"Once?" the first twin asked with a playful smirk.

"Or twice—" the second twin said, nodding solemnly, though there was laughter in his eyes.

"—a minute—" the first tacked on.

"—all _summer_!" the second finished triumphantly, and both laughed.

"Boys, stop teasing your brother," a plump red-haired woman chided with a glare, as a little girl, probably the Ginny mentioned before, peeked out from behind her skirt looking amused. The woman then turned a doting smile on her offended eldest. "We're all very proud of Percy. To think, yet _another_ prefect in the family!" Then her gaze fell on Harry. "Oh, hello dear, and who are you?"

"He's a first year," Percy stepped up to explain, visibly puffing himself up as if to regain his lost pride. "And as I was trying to tell him, if he needs help getting onto the platform, then as a prefect, I would be more than able to assist."

"Oh, that's fine. I already know how to get through," Harry said, his parents having told him.

"Oh." Percy seemed to deflate, before straightening again and nodding perfunctorily. "Of course, very good. Mother, I'm going to head through now." And then he was gone.

Harry felt a bit bad for a moment, like he'd stolen a sweet from a baby or kicked a puppy. Maybe he should have pretended to need directions, just to let the Percy fellow do his prefect thing and help him out and feel important? Then again, if the boy had been bragging as much as those twins claimed then Harry probably shouldn't encourage him. Although—he looked speculatively at the pair, who were whispering in a rather conspiratorial fashion—they seemed the trouble-making sort, so maybe he shouldn't take them at their word. He shook his head as the mother spoke up again, politely taking a step back so the large family could all go through before him.

"Fred, you next," she said with a gesture at the twin of the left, who looked suddenly offended.

"Fred? I'm George! Honestly, and you call yourself our mother." And in a huff he turned and ran for the barrier, pausing just before he hit to look over his shoulder and grin at the apologising woman. "Just kidding, I _am_ Fred!"

"Oh, those two," the mother said with exasperation as the second twin quickly followed the first. "Now dear, why don't you go on through before Ron here does?"

It took Harry a moment to realise she was talking to him, which meant Ron must be the younger boy, the gangly one who looked about his age. He nodded and thanked her, before heading for the barrier. His breath caught and his eyes instinctively slammed shut as he reached the brickwork, and he gave a sigh of relief as no collision occurred and he passed right through. Opening his eyes, he grinned at the sight of all the magic folk hanging about, with owls hooting and cats slinking between legs. A white cloud of steam from the train hung over the platform, making it seem even more magical. After a moment's pause to appreciate the sight, Harry decided to go find himself a spot on the train.

..ooOOoo..

"Mind if I sit in here? Everywhere else is full."

"Really?" Harry asked in surprise.

"Well, not _full_ full," the boy admitted with a sheepish shrug, "but a lot more crowded than your compartment. I'd have more room here."

"Oh. Then sure, have a seat."

"Thanks! I'm Ron by the way. Ron Weasley."

"Harry Potter," he replied and received a wide-eyes stare.

"Are you really?" the boy breathed, then seemed to realise he was acting a bit silly and flushed, looking down. "Sorry, it's just—" Ron's restraint quickly abandoned him as he blurted out, "Do you really have the scar?"

"Ah, yeah, I do." And Harry brushed his fringe back, smiling with a bit of amusement as the other boy stared enraptured at his forehead. "See," he said, then brushed his fringe back down, causing Ron to jump and look embarrassed once more. Taking pity, Harry decided to change the subject. "So, looking forward to Hogwarts? Hoping for any particular house?"

"Gryffindor of course," Ron replied firmly, then wavered. "Or, at least I hope so. All my family's been there. Don't know what they'll say if I'm not."

"My parents were Gryffindors too. I hope I get in there as well, though I don't think they'd mind if I got sorted somewhere else. Well, that's not entirely true—from what I've learned of my dad, he might have a bit of a fit if I was put in Slytherin."

"Well yeah," Ron said, as if it that was only to be expected. "Because who wants to be with the _slimy snakes_?"

Harry gave a snort of laughter. That was almost exactly the same reasoning as his dad had used before his mother had set him straight, reminding James that his own mother, Dorea Potter née Black, had herself been a Slytherin, and threatening to tell the woman what he'd said. Apparently, Harry's father was just as cowed by his mother as he was his wife.

..ooOOoo..

"—and I'm supposed to be just as good," said a morose Ron some time later, having had just listed all of his brothers and their many achievements. "And at the same time, if I am, it's not a big deal because it's been done before."

"I know exactly how you feel," Harry admitted quietly.

Ron looked surprised. "Really? I thought you were an only child."

"Oh, I am, but—well, I know they're gone and all, but I still want make my parents proud, you know? Live up to their example and all that. But the thing is, mum was a prefect and dad was Quidditch Captain, and _both_ of them were Head Boy and Girl in their seventh year. Added to that they were both brilliant students—mum was really good at Charms, top of her class, and quite handy at Potions as well, while dad was ace at Transfiguration and pretty decent at Defence too. And then, added to _that_, they were both really popular and well liked." Harry heaved a sigh. "It's an awful lot to live up to, but I really don't want to let them down."

It wasn't something Harry had yet admitted aloud, even to himself. His parents had high expectations of him, or perhaps just a lot of faith in his ability to excel. The reason they'd not joined him on the train ride was that they'd thoroughly exhausted their tolerance for the living world in the time since his trip to Diagon Alley. First there was the trip itself, which lasted longer than they normally lingered, and then in the weeks following they'd both made it their mission to help him study as much as he could before school started, so as to be prepared. Admittedly, it was his mother whose tutoring was most academically-minded. James, while he covered the Transfigurations study and Defence, mostly lectured Harry on practical things like the layout of the castle itself, and which trick steps to avoid, and the house and points systems, and how to get around Peeves or sneak into the restricted section—things like that.

They'd spent so much time trying to prepare Harry though, that the living world had become too much for them. Though a bit disappointed at not having them with him to at least see him off on his first trip, Harry had insisted they should take some rest back in heaven—or wherever it was the dead went to—for a few days before he called them again. The last thing he wanted was them hurting themselves on his behalf. They'd looked positively ragged by the time he insisted on sending them away. Also, though he hadn't said it, he had worried that if they accompanied him they might make him spend the whole trip on more studying. As much as he appreciated how prepared they'd made him, and how pleased he was that they thought he'd do well, it was a bit much sometimes, and he was quite worried he'd disappoint them. He'd kept mum on that thought though, up until now. In fact, it was a relief to finally express his fears aloud. And as Ron nodded, and the two of them shared a moment of perfect understanding, Harry thought maybe by the time they reached Hogwarts, he'd have made his first friend.

..ooOOoo..

"Excuse me, have either of you seen a toad, Neville here's lost—oh, you're doing magic! Well, let's see it."

Harry and Ron shared a look as the girl, without so much as a by-your-leave, plopped herself down and stared expectantly. The girl's bossy, supercilious tone rather reminded Harry of the little he'd seen of Percy Weasley, though her wildly bushy hair was completely at odds with Percy's impeccable grooming. Ron was suddenly looking nervous at the now three person audience—Harry, the girl, and a chubby boy who must be Neville, hovering uncertainly in the doorway—and swallowed hard before gathering his courage, pointing his wand at his pet rat Scabbers.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,  
Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow!"

They all stared as—nothing happened. The bushy-haired girl gave a disdainful sniff and Harry felt a bit angry at her as Ron started looking embarrassed and awkward. The feeling only doubled as she spoke.

"Are you sure that's a real spell, because if it is, it's not a very good one, is it?" she asked, slightly scathingly. "I've tried a few spells myself, only simple ones, but they've all worked for me," she bragged. "I'm Hermione Granger by the way, and you are?"

"Ron Weasley."

"Harry Potter."

"Are you really?" she said with fascination. "I've read all about you, you know—"

"That's nice, but weren't you looking for a toad?" Harry interrupted, wanting the rude girl gone.

"Oh, yes I suppose I was," she said, though she seemed a bit put out at having been interrupted. She stood and brushed imaginary dust from her robes, before turning to leave. "Come on Neville, let's go. And it was a pleasure to meet you two."

As the door closed behind them, the Neville boy following after the girl, though not before throwing the other two boys an apologetic sort of look, Ron and Harry turned to face one another with identical looks of relief.

"Glad she's gone," Ron said, and then adopted a falsetto voice, saying, "I'm Hermione Granger and I'm so clever and better than you that all the spells work for _me_, la di dah." He looked down at his pet then, and glumly added in his normal tone, "Got the spell from Fred and George you know. They probably knew all along it wouldn't work. Their idea of a joke."

"Forget about them," Harry said. "Tell you what, when we get to Hogwarts I'll find you a proper spell so you can change his colour. Maybe even one that'll turn him Gryffindor red and gold, so he'll match you when you get in."

"Yeah?" Ron asked, looking a bit brighter.

"Promise," Harry said, pleased to see the other boy looked cheerful once more.

..ooOOoo..

"Potter, Harry!" McGonagall called.

A tide of whispers swept across the room. Harry felt a bit self-conscious as he stepped forward, but not quite so much as he would have a year ago, before he met his parents again, and they began working on building his self-esteem. He sat on the stool and had a moment to look out on the great hall—not quite as magnificent as the view as they crossed the lake, but impressive and magical nonetheless—before the sorting hat was lowered onto his head.

"Hmm, let's here," the scratchy voice of the sorting hat whispered in Harry's ear. "Not a bad mind and I can see you've been using it, if with a little prompting. Not a stranger to hard work either. And there's courage, goodness yes, in spades. Oh, but also a thirst to prove yourself, and make your parents proud. Now, where to put you?"

"Anywhere is fine," Harry thought at the hat.

"Anywhere? Well, that sort of acceptance is Hufflepuff talk no doubt. But I don't think you'd be quite right there."

"Gryffindor would be good," Harry admitted. "Like my parents were."

"Ah yes, that's a common request. And, hmm, why not? Yes, I think you'd do well in—" and the hat shouted aloud, "GRYFFINDOR!"

..ooOOoo..

How dare he, Harry seethed as he stormed from the Potions classroom, Ron hot on his heels. How dare that—that—that _greasy git_, insult his father. Was lack of professionalism a universal problem in the wizarding world? Like with the snarky goblin teller that had surprised him so at Gringotts, were school professors also allowed to verbally attack their students and insult their families with false accusations, as if such behaviour was normal and acceptable?

James had told him about Severus Snape of course, the nasty kid in his year in Slytherin that never washed his hair, who always stuck his nose into things that weren't his business, and was fascinated by the Dark Arts. His mum told him about the man as well, from a different perspective, of a childhood friend who went down a questionable path, of a terrible slur that was the final straw, and her regrets that they had never reconciled.

Harry had never expected to see the man here of all places, at Hogwarts, as one of his professors. That in itself was awkward enough, given his parents' histories with the man. But then, from the moment he entered the classroom the man glared and sneered at him, and asked a million different difficult questions Harry couldn't possibly answer, and did his best to humiliate him in front of his year mates. And then—_then_—he had dared to say what he said.

"All show and no skill, more arrogance than talent, just like your _father_," Snape had spat as he looked down into Harry's cauldron, despite that the potion was only slightly off-colour.

Oh, Harry was under no delusions that his dad was perfect, or always modest and humble and without flaw. No, his mother had made clear that James _had_ been a troublesome, often-arrogant 'toe rag' in his earlier Hogwarts years, much to his dad's dismay. But—and this was an important but—James Potter had, eventually, matured and shaped up. If he hadn't, Lily said, she'd never have fallen for his long-standing efforts to catch her attention. It was clear to Harry though that unlike James, Snape had never bothered to mature and grown up. No, Severus Snape was still as petty and nasty as in his Hogwarts days.

"You alright Harry?" Ron asked cautiously. "Snape was a bit out of line there, huh?"

"More than a bit," Harry said shortly. Then he sighed, trying to let go of his anger. "Look, never mind that. Let's just forget the whole horrible lesson for now, and go get lunch."

..ooOOoo..

Harry waited till his roommates were all ensconced in their beds before closing his own hangings.

"_Muffliato_," he murmured, a spell his dad had taught him, and then "_Coloro_," which was the spell he'd looked up for Ron for his pet.

Looking around, he was satisfied with his work. A smirk twitched his lips before he wiped it clean, and instead did his best to seem gloomy and nervous. He rubbed the ring that, these days, never left his finger, and waited for the reaction.

"Harry, it's so good to see you again, how—James, what's wrong with you?"

"G—g—_green_," James croaked out, looking around at the emerald bed hangings in horror. Harry ducked his head and tried to make it seem more a gesture of shame than an action to hide the smile creeping over him. "B-but that must mean—_Slytherin_?" his father whispered querulously, sounding very lost.

"James Charlus Potter, there is absolutely nothing wrong with Slytherin. Or do I need to have that talk with your mother after all?"

"No, no, no, that won't be necessary," James hurriedly assured.

"More importantly," Lily added in a hiss, "how many times must I remind you, about the effects of the behaviour of those despicable Muggles, on our baby boy's sense of self-worth?"

"Bambi!" James cried. His head whipped towards Harry's dejected looking form, his expression stricken with guilt. "I—I—" He paused and took a bracing breath. "If Slytherin is the house for you, then—well, then Slytherin has gained a fine addition."

"Exactly," Lily said, sending her husband and approving look.

"Really?" Harry asked, voice odd and tight with the effort not to laugh.

"Really."

"In that case—" His head popped up to fix his parents, especially his dad, with a wide grin. "_Finite Incantatem_!" he cast and the bed hangings returned to crimson. "I got into Gryffindor!"

"You tricked me!" James cried in shock. A pause. "You tricked me!" James cried in offence. Another pause. "You tricked me!" James cried in proud delight. "Ah, the Marauders may yet continue on."

Lily just laughed. "Gosh, I hope not. I'm sure the professors would agree that one generation of the Marauders was more than enough. And are you happy with your house then?"

"I am," Harry confirmed. "I made a friend on the train as well, and he's in Gryffindor with me. Ron is his name, Ron Weasley."

"Weasley?" James asked. "Generally good sorts they are. What branch is he from?"

"Branch?"

"The Weasley family is—" Lily paused in her explanation, before finishing diplomatically, "prolific."

"They breed like Puffskein," James said more bluntly. "So saying he's a Weasley is like saying he's a Gryffindor—gives a bit of an idea, but doesn't really narrow it down."

"Oh, right. Yeah, he's the last of six brothers and has a younger sister too. His parents' names are Arthur and Molly I think."

"Oh, we know them," Lily said.

"You do?" Harry asked.

"We weren't really close friends, but we got on well enough. Molly and Arthur were part of the Order of the Phoenix—a group Dumbledore started to fight Voldemort—as were your father and I, and most of our friends. So were Molly's brothers before they died actually, and a lot of others who were prominent Light fighters in the war."

"And this is very depressing," James said. "Onto more cheery topics, tell us how your first week of classes was."

Harry proceeded to tell of his week. He spoke of the attention and whispers and stares he got, but was doing his best to ignore. He told about his meeting the Weasleys at the station, and the trip on the train. He happily related getting to know Ron, and not so happily explained about the snobby Granger girl. He told them about his other roommates who seemed alright so far. His classes, the professors and coursework were described too, with varying enthusiasm. And then he got to potions.

"Snivellus is your potions professor!" James yelled aghast.

At the same time Lily lit up, asking, "Severus is here?"

"Yeah, and—sorry to have it say it mum—dad, you're absolutely right about him. He's _horrible_."

"Hah! I knew it."

"But—" Lily was frowning at her husband, before she turned an earnest expression on her son. "Perhaps he was having a bad day?

"I think it was more than that," Harry said awkwardly, not wanting to disappoint his mother, but unwilling to lie to her about the situation either. "He was mean and nasty in general, but he seemed to have it out for me in particular."

"Severus was such a dear friend to me growing up. I can't imagine you two not getting along at least a little," Lily insisted.

"Mum, his exact words were, 'all show and no skill, more arrogance than talent, just like your father'. I don't think that's promising."

"God, I'm dead and _still_ Snivellus is a giant arse," James said.

"Alright, I _can_ see him saying that about your dad, but they never did get along. But Harry, Severus is—he's a difficult man to understand. And he's had a hard life. Still, even with our falling out, I can't imagine that he would treat my son _too_ poorly. We were so close." She looked pleadingly at her son. "Can't you give him a chance? For me?"

Harry's heart sunk. She didn't believe him. She thought he was lying. Worse, she wanted him to give Snape a chance, which really, would mean letting him keep being a 'giant arse' and not fighting back. It didn't make sense. Hadn't his mother been the one to always tell him at the Dursleys that he'd done nothing wrong and, while he had to be careful, he shouldn't give in to their treatment? What made the situation with Snape so different? Did she—he hesitated to think it—did she care more about Snape than about him?

"Lily, that's not fair," James was quick to object, noting his son's crestfallen expression. He scooted up the bed and attempted to ruffle Harry's hair and put an arm around him. It didn't work of course, but the warmth that spread across his back was comforting. "Don't mind your mum Harry—Lily's always been unreasonable where Snape was concerned, and she can be ridiculously stubborn." Then he turned a surprisingly stern look on Lily as she opened her mouth to object. "Yes, you have Lily, and yes you are. While I can't say I was at all disappointed about your split from Snape, it still says a lot that after literally years of friendship, once he blew it, you held the grudge until the day you died. _Stubborn_. So before you go dismissing everything bambi said, why don't we pop in for one of his potions classes and see the situation first hand?"

Harry perked up. "Will you?" he asked, sure that if she saw things herself, his mother couldn't deny it all.

"Alright," Lily said, with a sigh, as though she thought it was all a waste of time but was willing to humour them. "We'll visit one of your potions classes then. But I'm sure you're both overreacting. Severus is a good man underneath the prickliness."

James sighed then. "Lily, I love you and all, but you do have your blind spots, and you can be stubborn to the point of blood-mindedness sometimes."

"I do not!"

"Well, we'll see soon enough. You'll call us your next class with him Harry?"

"Yeah, promise."

..ooOOoo..

"Are you coming?" Ron asked, hovering in the door of the potions classroom, and looking back at where Harry had halted.

Harry bit his lip and subtly rubbed at his ring, turning it on his finger thrice, murmuring the names. His parents appeared and he flickered his eyes towards them, but did no more to acknowledge their presence. It wouldn't do to get a reputation for seemingly talking to himself, after all.

"Alright Ron, let's go in."

..ooOOoo..

"That—that complete—that utter—" James spluttered, apparently too angry to form proper sentences.

"I'll catch up with you in the Great Hall," Harry told Ron. "I just need to do something first."

"Alright," Ron said, clearly confused, but the call of food too much to distract him.

"Come on," Harry hissed, and led the way to an empty classroom, his parents trailing behind. Once inside he cast, "_Muffliato_."

"I can't believe—didn't think even Snivellus could be so—" James was still rambling. He stopped suddenly and whipped towards Harry. "I don't want you in his classes. You shouldn't have to expose yourself to that sort of—of—

"Vitriol," Lily finished, earning surprised glances. Her voice was odd—quiet and sad, but almost as though there was a hidden fury beneath that. "I'm sorry Harry. You were absolutely right. He was completely and unforgivably out of line, and he did target you specifically," she said with dignity. "It was clearly foolish of me to hope for more, as obviously he's turned out no better than Petunia. Now, let's work out how to get you away from him. I think our first step should be a formal complaint. We'll need to compile some reasonable evidence. And in the meantime, I'll start tutoring you in Potions, because you're not going to learn anything from _that_ man."

Harry smiled, pleased with the results of his latest potions class. Apparently, blinded and stubborn though his mother could be, when she realised that she'd been wrong, she was quick to take action to correct her mistakes.

* * *

**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


	5. 05: Halloween Havoc

**Posted**: 18 May, 2012

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: An unexpected find in the attic of Grimmauld Place changes the course of Harry's life. Except not, because it's not _this_ Harry who'll be affected. Rather, everything is about to change for another Harry, from long ago and far away.

* * *

**05: Halloween Havoc**

"Merlin but that girl's a nightmare. It's Levi-_o_-sa, not Levi-o-_sa_," Ron mimicked in a snobby tone, before making an angry sound in his throat. "It's no wonder really, that she's not got any friends."

By chance, the boys didn't notice as a tearful Hermione Granger rushed off towards the girl's bathroom.

..ooOOoo..

"You _have_ to go! Harry, its Halloween at Hogwarts!" James shouted. "There's nothing like it."

"But Harry, you _have_ to come! It's the Hogwarts Halloween feast!" Ron yelled at the same time. "All my brothers say it's brilliant."

"Oh lord," Lily giggled. "Really Harry, did you purposefully pick your friend by how much he resembles your father?"

Harry's lips twitched but he didn't comment—not with Ron there to see him talking to thin air. James relaxed from his drama enough to laugh as well.

"Now all you need is a brilliant witch who's sometimes too clever for her own good," James said. "Then you'll have a matched Lily-and-James-alike set."

"Look, Ron, it's not that I don't think the feast would be brilliant or anything—"

"It will!" Ron insisted.

"—_but_, it just seems to be a bit—well, _morbid_, to celebrate today of all days." At Ron's uncomprehending look, Harry spelled it out for him, bluntly. "It's the anniversary of the day my parents were murdered."

Ron paled. "Oh." Then he flushed, looking quite shame-faced. "Merlin Harry, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"It's fine, really. Look, you just head on to the feast and I'll see you tonight back in the dorms before bed."

"Do—" Ron hesitated, then seemed to brace himself for something unpleasant. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

Harry stared. "Are you, Ron Weasley, actually volunteering to miss a feast to keep me company?" he asked incredulously, for he'd already come to realise that his friend positively worshipped food.

"Well, yeah."

Harry was touched. "Thanks for the offer—_really_ thanks, it means a lot—but I think I'd be better off alone."

"Oh, alright," Ron said, nodding, looking relieved.

"You really should go," Lily said once Ron had left. "It might be the anniversary of our death, but it's not really the same, is it? Since you have the assurance most don't, that we still exist somewhere."

"Plus, you can even talk to us," James added. "You shouldn't miss a Hogwarts Halloween in favour of moping."

Harry shook his head, heading off down a random corridor. "It's not just that you both died, because yeah, it's not really the same when I still get to speak to you both all the time. It's mostly because this day really marks the beginning of events that led to me spending a miserable decade with the Dursleys."

"Ah," James said, less than eloquently. "Okay, that is probably worth some moping over."

"Despicable Muggles," Lily muttered with a scowl.

"So, what are you going to do instead?"

"Well, I thought I'd spend some time with you both and explore the castle," Harry said. "I've not gotten much chance to do that yet, with all the classes and homework and extra reading and all."

"You _have_ been very conscientious in your studies," Lily complimented, with a pleased smile.

"Ron thinks I'm barmy, to spend so much time studying when I could be—I don't know, playing wizard's chess or talking Quidditch or relaxing and just hanging about." Harry shook his head. "He worries about not living up to his older brothers you know, and yet he can't be bothered doing anything about it. I just don't get it."

"Maybe he's a bit lazy, no motivation?" Lily suggested. Harry opened his mouth to object and defend his friend, but his mother interrupted. "I'm sure he's a good person Harry, but everyone has their flaws. You have a bit of a self-worth problem, though that's not your fault, and you also have a bit of a temper at times. Your dad has stupid moments where he doesn't think before he acts or speaks, and has a bit of an ego. And as for myself," she added self-deprecatingly, "I believe that it was pointed out not too long ago that I'm stubborn and have certain blind spots."

"And most tragically of all," James added, "you've got absolutely no appreciation for the fine art of Quidditch."

"Tragic," Harry agreed with false solemnity.

"Boys and Quidditch," Lily said with a roll of her eyes.

"Hey, there are plenty of witches who enjoy it too," James defended. "Holyhead Harpies ring a bell?"

"Besides, it's not so much the sport itself that I'm so enamoured of—" Harry cut off suddenly, an odd expression twisting his face. "Did I really just use the word enamoured in a sentence?" he wondered aloud.

"My poor baby boy," James cried, feigning a swoon. "I am faint with horror. Your mother is infecting your with her grandiose eloquence."

"Me?" Lily objected, the proud smile she'd begun to sport fading, being replaced by an ironic expression. "You use the words 'grandiose eloquence' in a sentence and apparently _I'm_ the sole reason for our son's improved vocabulary."

James sniffed. "That's different. Dramatic displays and overdone declarations, moments of mocking pomposity, and trying to impress hot girls, are the three exceptions to the rule. It's says so in the Marauder's Handbook." Then he turned to Harry with a stern look. "Talking like a dictionary at any other time though, is strictly swottish behaviour."

"Don't tell him that!" Lily objected. "Harry, don't you limit yourself for anything, you understand? Not even if your dad pulls out one of his rules from the mythical 'Marauder's Handbook'."

James gasped. "It is _not_ mythical," he declared, looking mortally offended at such a suggestion.

"Well, in all the time I've known you James, I've not seen hide or hair of this supposed book. So until I do I'll continue believing it doesn't exist, and that you just use it as an excuse to create arbitrary rules."

"Don't listen to the vile, vile lies that this woman spews, my beloved son! The Marauder's Handbook, most holy of holy texts, does indeed exist and its instructions should always be followed. Tell your mother it's true!"

"Don't be silly. Harry, tell your father to stop making things up."

"Right," Harry said slowly, smiling in amusement at his parents' antics. "Well, changing the subject—and not at all subtly," he said, unwilling to take a side in the argument. "I was going to say that it's not Quidditch I'm really big on so much as _flying_. Though, I like the sport too, and Madam Hooch suggested I try out for the house team next year. I probably will too, if only for the chance to fly some—what _is_ that _smell_?"

"What smell?"

"James dear, we can't smell on this plane remember?"

"Oh right."

"It smells like—I don't know, garbage and sewage or something," Harry said with disgust. Then he turned a corner and staggered to a halt, wide-eyed. "What—the—_bloody hell_?" he whispered.

"Oh god," Lily gasped. "It's a troll! What's a troll doing in Hogwarts?"

"Get out Harry, get out!" James yelled. "Run!"

"No!" Lily quickly objected. "I've read about them—sudden movements just attract their attention and enrage them. Harry, back away very, very slowly."

Harry, heart racing, did as directed, stepping backwards slowly and resisting the urge to bolt. Evidently his mother's advice was working because the troll lumbered along, peering in doors, seeming not to have noticed Harry. He breathed a sigh of relief as the troll, after peeking into one room, decided to duck inside.

"Quick Harry," James said. "Run now, while you're out of sight."

Harry turned to do just that when a sudden scream sounded out from down the hall. It was the scream of a young girl, and seemed to come from the room the troll had just entered. As if in confirmation, said troll gave a roar of anger, and another girlish scream, even more terrified, sounded out. Harry didn't think—he just reacted.

"Harry James Potter!" Lily somehow both hissed and yelled. "Get back here! What do you think you're doing?"

"Harry, you'll be killed!" James yelled fearfully.

Harry ignored them both, sprinting down the hall, unable to fathom doing anything but trying to help when someone was clearly in danger. He skidded to a halt in the doorway, taking in the sight of the bellowing troll destroying sinks and cubicles with swipes of its giant club, and a terrified Hermione Granger cowering futilely in a corner.

"Hermione," Harry yelled, "run!" She just stared at him, frozen, and Harry growled. Even in a life-and-death situation it seemed, Hermione Granger could find a way to be annoying. Finding no other option, he decided to try distracting the troll. "Hey you! Ugly!" he yelled, but was paid no mind. He reached for a piece of the debris littering the floor—a tap spout by the looks of it—and hurled it at the troll, clipping the creature's head. It turned to him with confusion and growing anger. "Yeah, that's right, over here you ugly beast!"

Then the troll was lumbering towards him, its heavy footsteps actually causing the floor to shake. Harry backed away quickly, drawing the troll out from the bathroom, and took the opportunity as it smashed through the door to start sprinting down the corridor.

"Oh god, oh god," his mother was crying as she ran beside him. "James, what do we do? There must be some way we can help!"

"Fuck," James cursed and, for once, received no rebuke for teaching their son bad language. "Alright, trolls are big, which means long legs, which means long strides, which means fast." His confidence failed then as he shot a seeking gaze at his wife. "Right?"

"Right," she said, nodding rapidly, eyes wide and afraid.

"Which would explain why it's catching up," Harry huffed. "If you've got some advice, hurry up!"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Alright," James said quickly. "They're fast but awkward and not very agile. So stop running straight down the hall and start taking corners and turns."

Harry wasted not a second, abruptly turning on his heel and diving down the next intersecting passageway. He took another turn, and another, and then found himself rushing down a set of stairs, taking the last dozen in a giant leap, rolling his landing and getting up and sprinting again. A risked glance over his shoulder showed the troll still hot on his heels, but no longer gaining. Harry kept running and dodging and turning, so focussed on his movement that it seemed all else, even fear, faded into the background. He was aware though that he was tiring. His lungs burned and his legs ached, and he was starting to flag. And then—salvation!

"Mr Potter!" a shocked voice cried, and Harry looked up and almost cried with relief. "HE'S OVER HERE! THE TROLL'S FOLLOWING!" McGonagall screamed with an uncharacteristic lack of decorum, even as she started sprinting towards him, faster than he would have expected of her. "Quickly Mr Potter, get behind me!"

Harry raced the rest of the distance, and as he passed McGonagall, who had whipped her wand out causing nearby suits of armour to draw swords and spears and take up their defence, he saw a group of several more professors thundering towards them. With help at last at hand, Harry's legs finally gave out and he collapsed, sliding down a wall. The school's hospital matron—he thought her name was Madam Pomfrey—was quickly at his side and checking him over, as the rest of the professors joined McGonagall. Harry watched, quite impressed, as the troll was quickly subdued.

"Mr Potter? _Mr Potter_!" Harry's head snapped towards the matron. "Good, now, are you injured anywhere?"

"I—I—no—fine—just—tired," he panted between breaths. Then a thought occurred to him and he reached out to grab the woman's arm. "Hermione—Granger—girl's—bathroom—troll—was there—don't know—if—hurt."

"Right, you seem fine but for some exhaustion, and possibly shock. Pomona," she called to the nearest professor, "would you take Mr Potter to the hospital wing for me? Get him lying down and some fluids in him. And a Calming Draught too, I think."

"I'm—fine," Harry tried to object.

"You'll be spending the night, and no argument," she said, rising to her feet briskly. "Albus, I'm heading for the girl's bathroom. There may be an injured student there."

"Filius," the headmaster said, approaching, "will you accompany Poppy please."

Professor Flitwick nodded and he and Pomfrey hurried off. Professor Sprout was helping Harry to his feet. He swayed a bit, surprised to find that his legs felt something like jelly, and were barely able to hold his weight.

"Easy now child," Sprout soothed, wrapping an arm around Harry in support. "Do you think you can make it to the hospital, or shall I levitate you?"

"I can make it," Harry wheezed, breathing a little more under control. "At least, I think."

"Well, let's get going then and see how we do, shall we?"

"Mr Potter," Dumbledore interrupted as they turned to leave. "If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you some questions once the situation is dealt with. If you could temporarily endeavour to resist Madam Pomfrey's efforts to drug you into sleep," he said wryly, "I should not be more than a half hour. Is this satisfactory?"

"Sure, no problem headmaster," Harry said faintly, though in truth, he felt so tired that he would like nothing more than to pass out and sleep for a week.

As he passed the teachers, McGonagall shot him a concerned but relieved look, Snape gave him a piercing stare, and Quirrell was glancing between the troll and boy with his usual look of fear. Harry's parents walked alongside him, noticeably silent but for Lily's stifled sobs of relief. They were quite pale and kept reaching out warm hands to touch him, as if to reassure themselves he was still alive and unharmed.

..ooOOoo..

Harry awoke slowly and blinked in confusion at the unfamiliar surroundings. Quickly though, the events of the previous evening flooded back to him and he realised he was in the hospital wing. A flicker of movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked over, surprised to see his parents standing beside him. He was immediately contrite.

"I'm so sorry," he said, in a whisper in case Madam Pomfrey was nearby. "I completely forgot to send you both back last night, before I took the sleeping potion. You must have been stuck here for _hours and hours_."

"It's fine Harry."

"We don't mind."

"It's not fine, I can tell," he insisted. He was well able to see the pain, the ache they tried to hide, the growing yearning to return to the afterlife. "I'll send you both back right—"

"Don't you dare," Lily ordered sternly, to his shock. "We will need to return shortly, it's true, but we're glad we got to stay with you last night. Besides, there's something we need to talk about first."

"Talk about?"

"Why don't you make sure you're not overheard talking to us first," James suggested. "Don't want Pomfrey questioning your mental health too, or she'll never let you leave."

"_Muffliato_. Okay, now what did we need to talk about?"

"Harry," Lily said slowly, as if thinking her words through carefully as she spoke them. "What you did last night was—it was incredibly brave." Harry felt a bubble of pleased pride rise within him, but it was brutally popped as Lily added, "It was also incredibly stupid, and reckless, and foolish."

"Lily, maybe—"

"No James. He could have died. _Died_ at only eleven years old! That is not acceptable." She gave a sad sigh. "And it's entirely the fault of my sister and her rotten family."

"What? What do the Dursleys have to do with anything?" Harry asked timidly, still smarting at his reprimand.

"Harry, in the situation you found yourself in last night, any properly-raised and well-adjusted boy would have done the sensible thing and run _away_ from the troll, not towards it."

"If I'd done that," he objected, "then Granger would probably be dead!"

"I know, I know. And I'm glad that you were able to help her, really I am, but what if your plan had failed? What if you couldn't lure the troll away and instead got trapped with her?"

"I—" he cut off, unsure what to say.

"You'd _both_ probably be dead, that's what, and how would that help anything? No, the smart thing to do would have been to run away, but also to search out the faculty. With fully trained witches and wizards alerted, it would be a certainty that the troll would be taken out."

"But they would probably have been too late," Harry defended. "It was only seconds between my first seeing the troll, and when Granger started screaming. And it took me forever to run into a teacher. She would definitely have died before help could arrive."

"That as may be—"

"Lily, he's right."

"But, James!"

"No, just listen. Different situations call for different responses. Under normal circumstances I would totally agree with you, he should have gone quickly for better trained help, but it wasn't normal circumstances. The girl was within seconds of death. Harry saved a life yesterday, and so some other parents have been spared losing their child. The girl is safe, Harry is safe, and the troll was captured."

Lily was quiet for a long time. "Alright," she finally said, breaking the tense silence. "I will concede that there were extenuating circumstances. But Harry, I want you to promise me in future that you won't just rush into danger as if it was your responsibility to risk yourself—because it's _not_—and that you'll try to find a teacher or adult or someone more qualified to help. You have to promise to have more care with your own life and that, unless there is absolutely _no other choice_, you won't put yourself in harm's way. Please, we're not ready to welcome you on the other side yet. I fully expect you to be old and grey before it happens."

Harry hesitated. "But what if someone gets hurt because I didn't step in?" he asked in a small voice. "Then it'd be my fault, wouldn't it?"

"No," James said firmly. "Not unless you're the one going about intentionally hurting people."

"It's those despicable Muggles that have put such a ridiculous idea into your head," Lily said with a scowl. "Forever telling you that you were a burden, and blaming you for everything that didn't go right. They've got you believing them! But Harry, it's not true, and not everything is your responsibility or fault. And contrary to what my petty sister and her horrible husband might make you think, you are _not_ unimportant or worth any less than other people. And it's certainly not reasonable to expect you to put the wellbeing and lives of others before your own, because yours is worth _just_ as much. Do you understand?"

"In fact," James spoke up to add, "I think your mother and I would actually rate your safety _above_ anyone else's. But then you're our son, and we love you best, so we might be a bit biased."

"Biased or not, I'd agree completely. So do you understand, Harry James? Do you promise not to put yourself unnecessarily in danger? For us, if not for yourself?"

"I—" Harry stopped and swallowed around the lump that had inexplicably formed in his throat, blinking away equally inexplicable tears that were stinging his eyes. "Yeah, okay," he croaked out. "I'll be more careful and—and try not to get in trouble."

"Well," James drawled, in a more light-hearted tone, "I don't have anything against a little trouble-making—"

"Danger," Harry managed to say with a laugh. "I meant I'll try not to get into danger."

"Good," James and Lily said together.

..ooOOoo..

"Harry!" Ron cried out when he appeared, stepping through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room. Harry let out an _oof_ as Ron actually hugged him, albeit roughly and with much back-slapping. "As soon as Quirrell said there was a troll loose I realised you wouldn't know, so I told McGonagall and they all raced off looking for you."

"You're the reason they were out looking then? You know, if you hadn't raised the alarm, the troll would probably have pasted me. Thanks."

"Yeah, well." Ron shrugged, awkward but pleased. "It was nothing. I am glad you're alright though. The professors said you were, but they also said you'd been chased by the troll and that you were spending the night in the hospital wing, so I wasn't too sure what their definition of alright was."

"I'm fine, really. The troll didn't even touch me, just chased me through half of Hogwarts. I was exhausted and Madam Pomfrey insisted I go to the hospital for rest and in case of shock or something." Then he grinned. "On the plus side though, once I explained everything that happened to Dumbledore, he awarded Gryffindor _fifty_ points for saving a fellow student's life."

"Fifty points!" Ron gawked. "Who did you save?"

"Me," said Hermione Granger, rising from a nearby chair where she'd gone unnoticed, and approaching them. Her demeanour and voice were quiet and unassertive, so different from her usual bold and bossy attitude. "You really did you know Harry. You saved my life when you lured the troll away from where I was cornered."

"How'd _you_ end up cornered by the troll?" Ron blurted out.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the redhead, but only for a moment. Her gaze seemed to flicker to Harry and she bit her lip, looking down.

"I was—I'd gone to the bathroom you see and—" She shook her head, gaining a brisk air. "Never mind that. I just wanted to acknowledge that, at great risk to yourself Harry Potter, you saved my life. I—I don't know what to say except that I'm eternally grateful. If I can ever do anything to pay you back, just ask it."

Then she nodded and quietly excused herself. The boys stared after her for a moment, before Ron spoke.

"Huh. You know, I would never have expected her to actually say thank you."

"Really?" Harry asked, surprised. "Why's that?"

"Well, you know how she usually is. If I'd to guess, I'd have expected her to tell you off instead, and lecture about how she had the whole situation under control because she'd read all about trolls—or something like that."

"Hmm," Harry said because really, while harsh, it did sound like the sort of thing the girl would do. "Guess people will surprise you."

"Yeah, maybe she's not _quite_ so much a nightmare as we thought," Ron mused, then shrugged and put the matter from his mind. "Come on, breakfast is waiting."

* * *

**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


	6. 06: Christmas Holidays

**Posted**: 1 February, 2013

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

**Summary**: An unexpected find in the attic of Grimmauld Place changes the course of Harry's life. Except not, because it's not _this_ Harry who'll be affected. Rather, everything is about to change for another Harry, from long ago and far away.

* * *

**06: Christmas Holidays**

"Mr Potter," McGonagall said, looking up in surprise from what seemed to be a stack of homework, mid-marking. "Why are you not off enjoying your free time, like the other holiday boarders?"

"I was hoping to speak to you about some things," he said. "But, it might take a while and you look a bit busy. Can I maybe make a time to see you later?"

"No need," she said, putting down her marking quill and setting aside the homework papers. "To be frank, I appreciate the excuse to put this work off a little longer. I suspect my seventh year Hufflepuffs all decided to complete their homework the night before leaving, while drunk from their end of term celebrations."

"Hufflepuffs?" Harry blurted out incredulously.

"Oh, don't let their harmless reputation fool you," she said with a rare, albeit wry smile. "Hufflepuffs are generally the friendly house, but they're not timid. They tend to extend their friendliness to fun, music and liquor. Professor Sprout has quite a time keeping them in line."

"Ah yes," James mused in a dreamy and reminiscent way. "I remember in sixth, Sirius and I cadged an invite to a Hufflepuff post-Quidditch celebration—they'd just creamed the Slytherin team as I recall. I don't think I've ever been to such a wild party, or ever gotten as drunk as I did that night."

"Oh," Harry said, a bit dumbly. Then he laughed a little. "Well, that'll teach me to judge a book by its cover."

"Or a student by their crest," McGonagall said and he nodded. "So, what can I do for you Mr Potter?"

"Right, well you see—"

"Just follow the plan we agreed on Harry," Lily urged. "If the conversation drifts off track we'll help you bring it back around."

"Yes?" McGonagall asked, staring at him a bit impatiently overtop her glasses. "Well, spit it out."

"I was hoping you could tell me some about my parents." The words tumbled out quickly and Harry watched at the woman visibly stilled, then looked a bit teary. "If you don't mind, that is."

"Of course not," she said, though her voice was a bit heavy with emotion. "I didn't know them personally you understand. Well, I did know them personally and was fond of them, but we were hardly close friends."

"But you were their Head of House. You taught them Transfiguration."

"Yes, I was, I did. So I might be able to answer some of your questions."

"Remember, start out general or else old Min will suspect a motive right off," James warned.

"Your father speaks from experience of course," Lily said dryly.

"What were they like?" Harry asked.

"Well, brilliant the both of them," McGonagall said a bit wistfully. "Some of the brightest I've ever taught. You do quite well in my class Mr Potter, in all your wand classes in fact, from what I've heard. Your father though, he had a particular knack for Transfiguration like few others. And he was quite decent at Defence too, I believe, and could incorporate the two very effectively."

"Aw Min," James cooed, fluttering his eyes. "Stop with the compliments—you'll make me blush!"

Harry, in an effort to stem his laughter, asked, "What about mum? What was she good at?"

"Professor Flitwick would rave about her Charms work. Said she was a natural of immense skill. And Professor Slughorn—he was the Potion teacher at the time—complimented her brewing abilities as well. And of course, both did quite well in all of their subjects. Not surprising for your mother, since she was a studious sort, but certainly unexpected for your father."

"Why's that?"

"Let's just say he was a mischievous youth," McGonagall said, her tone suggestive of massive understatement.

"A trouble-maker, huh?"

"Of the highest degree," she sighed. "A trickster and a prankster, and forever breaking rules." Then she pinned Harry with a stern look. "I do expect that this information will _not_ be seen as inspiration to take up trouble-making yourself though, Mr Potter."

"No ma'am," he quickly promised. "What about their friends? Were they popular or loners?"

"They were both quite popular. Your father was on the Quidditch team, a brilliant chaser, and Captain eventually too, all of which netted him many admirers. And your mother was brilliant, beautiful, kind and engaging, which made her popular as well. Lily, as I recall, was friendly with a wide circle of people, but only really close friends with—well, just the one by the time she left Hogwarts, Dorcas Meadows, another Gryffindor girl in her year." McGonagall faltered then.

"Professor, are you alright?"

"Fine, Mr Potter."

"Ask her what happened to Dorcas," Lily said quietly. "It'll get her opening up about more sensitive topics." She wrinkled her nose. "Though, I hate manipulating her like this."

"We need the information," James reminded, wrapping an arm around Lily's waist.

"What happened to her?" Harry asked, then as McGonagall hesitated, added, "Do you think she'd mind if I wrote her, to ask some questions about mum?"

"Ah, no, that won't be possible." McGonagall sighed, removing her glasses for a moment to dab at her eyes. "She too died in the war you see, not long before your—your parents did."

"Oh," Harry said quietly.

"You-Know-Who himself came for her," the professor said quietly, almost to herself, before seeming to come back to her senses. "Well, she was a brave and brilliant witch, and was sorely missed by all, especially your parents. I understand they were quite close even after Hogwarts—they named her your godmother, you know."

"Aha!" James shouted, and Harry struggle not to react by jumping in surprise. "Quick Harry, it's the perfect opening. Ask about your godfather."

"Godmother? I didn't know I ever had one. What about a godfather? Do I have one of those as well?"

McGonagall visibly faltered. "I—well you see—ah, well—it's rather complicated," she stammered.

"Professor?"

"I'm not sure it would be appropriate to say."

"You're not sure it would be appropriate to say whether I have a godfather," Harry stated flatly, making sure his expression was one of confused disbelief. "Can I ask _why_ you can't say? Since it's fairly obvious, given you didn't just say no, that I _do_ have one."

"Oh dear, this is—well, as I said it's complicated and—are you quite sure you want to know?"

"Of course I—"

"Mr Potter," she interrupted, looking at him piercingly over her glasses, and stating very seriously, "the war was a terrible time, and terrible things happened. The answer to your question is not easy, is indeed complicated, and you may well prefer not to know."

"I'd prefer _to_ know," Lily huffed. "Sirius isn't with us, we're pretty sure, so we need to know why he didn't raise you like he promised."

"We need to know," James agreed seriously. "I can't imagine Sirius not being in your life at all, not willingly. There are worse fates than death, and if Sirius was—Voldemort had the support of the Dementors you know and—please, just get her to explain Harry."

"I want to know," Harry said with certainty.

Twenty minutes later, Harry left his Head of House's office, headed down the corridor, and entered the first abandoned classroom he could find. After casting the usual Muffliato Charm, he turned the ring on his finger and called his parents names.

"I'm sorry I sent you both away," he blurted before either could begin to tell him off. "But you were both being so loud and all, that I couldn't concentrate and I was scared I'd give you and me away to McGonagall, and then I might lose the ring and never see you again and—"

"Harry," Lily interrupted, as any anger faded from both hers and James' stances. "It's okay, we understand. We should have had better control. We're sorry we made it difficult for you."

"We are," James agreed. Then he sighed, and made a defeated sound burying his face in his hands. "I just can't believe—how could anyone possibly think—_Azkaban_ Lily!"

"I know," she said, looking tearful.

"This is all our fault. We didn't tell anyone else who the real secret keeper was, so of course they thought it was Sirius. We knew everyone would think it was him—that was the whole idea behind the plan."

"James, we couldn't have predicted _Peter_ being clever enough to manage to frame Sirius before Sirius took him down. It must have looked very bad, with Peter's words, then Peter dead, along with the twelve others in the bargain."

"You can't be suggesting Sirius actually killed those Muggles?" James said angrily.

"James," Lily said carefully, "you know I have faith in Sirius—I wouldn't have agreed to make him Harry's godfather otherwise—but you have to admit he's hot-headed and doesn't always think things through."

"Lily," James said quietly, staring her directly in the eye, keeping his tone forcibly calm. "Sirius didn't kill those Muggles."

She stared back for a long moment. "Okay," she finally said with a nod. "I trust you to know him best."

"Thank you." James sighed then. "The problem is, since Sirius didn't do it, who did?"

"Maybe—"

"What?"

"Well, what if Peter did?"

"You think Peter blew _himself_ up?"

"He proved cleverer than we gave him credit for," Lily said, "but I don't think his reputation as a less than gifted wizard can have been entirely faked. Is it really so unbelievable that he could have tried a spell beyond his capabilities and had it backfire on him, taking out innocent bystanders and missing his real target in the process?"

"I—" James paused to consider. "It does seem like a possibility."

Harry, who had been watching the conversation silently, finally spoke up. "Does it really matter?" he asked. At their questioning looks, he explained, "Does it really matter how it all happened, and if it was Peter screwing up? I mean, isn't the more important question how Sirius was found guilty of it all—Peter, the Muggles, _and_ betraying us. Didn't one of you once mention that the wizarding world had truth serum? Don't they use that sort of thing in court?"

"Veritaserum," Lily said. "And that's a very good point. Plus there are other options like Pensieve memories."

"Pensieve memories?"

"A Pensieve is a device wizards can use to view memories," James explained. "Like Veritaserum there are ways to get around the truth using memories, but it's usually a lot more convincing than the potion because false memories are—well, it's blatantly obvious if a memory has been faked."

"But with both these options for questioning," Lily wondered, "how did the truth not come out in his trial?"

"Well," James said thoughtfully, "a lot of Death Eaters seem to have gotten off, so maybe the Wizengamot wasn't doing its job very well?" he suggested, though he didn't sound as if he'd convinced even himself.

"Ron said that his dad told him that the Death Eaters who got off claimed Imperius and bribed their way free," Harry said. "So isn't that a different situation? It's not like Sirius would have bribed the Wizengamot to find him guilty."

"Unless someone else did it," James said in a tone of enlightenment.

"No," Lily disagreed. "I mean it's not _impossible_, but even with a bribe, there needs to be room for doubt. The Death Eaters had Imperius as an excuse, but once Sirius had admitted his innocence under Veritaserum, or provided his memory of the incident, it would be too difficult to deny."

"Unless he didn't take either of those options?"

"Why wouldn't he have? That would be the first thing I'd request in his situation."

"From what Professor McGonagall said," Harry ventured, "Sirius wasn't exactly in his right mind at the time. I guess, probably, because he'd just lost you both and everything and—"

"It must have been like his whole world had fallen apart," James said heavily. "We were as good as brothers and just he'd lost me, and Lily too. And then Peter was dead, even if he was a traitor." He nodded. "I can see why he might not have been thinking clearly."

"It was a traumatic time," Lily agreed. "If they were swift with the trial, Sirius mightn't have had time to recover his senses."

"So we're agreed then, that he probably didn't get tested with Veritaserum _or_ provide his memories?" Harry asked and his parents nodded. "So then, does that give us an in? Since none of those methods were used at his trial, can we ask for another one to have him questioned properly?"

"Maybe—"

"No," James interrupted. "That's not how wizarding law works. A retrial can only be called if a case is reopened, and a case can only be reopened if there's significant new evidence."

"Well," Harry said as the following glum silence stretched too long, his tone one of determination, "I suppose we'll just have to _find_ some new evidence, won't we?" Then he ducked his head a little at the surprised and proud looks his declaration earned him. "So, ah—so what should be our first step?"

"Well, what sort of evidence might they have missed?" James mused.

"No, no, the first thing we need is the trial records," Lily asserted. "There's no point looking for evidence when we don't know what evidence was already presented."

"Ah, my fair Lily-flower's brilliance shines again," James said, light-hearted for the first time since McGonagall's terrible revelation. "You'll need to write to the head of the DMLE Harry. I'm not sure who that'll be though. Last I knew it was Barty Crouch."

"There's a book that used it be in the library when I went to school, and should hopefully still be there. _A Guide to the Ministry_, I think it was called. It's mostly blatant propaganda, but it also lists the employees of the major positions. It's self-updating too, so it should tell you the current minister, undersecretary, heads and deputy heads of department, key Wizengamot figures—things like that," Lily explained. "It'll definitely have the head of the DMLE."

"Right, let's go then," Harry said, taking down the anti-eavesdropping spell and heading for the library.

..ooOOoo..

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Scotland, United Kingdom (Unplottable)_

_24 December 1991_

_Madam Amelia Susan Bones, Head of DMLE  
Ministry of Magic for Britain and Northern Ireland  
London, England, United Kingdom_

_Dear Madam,_

_I write requesting a copy of the records pertaining to the trial of current Azkaban convict, Mr Sirius Orion Black. I believe he was captured within a few days subsequent to 31 October 1981, but am unsure of the exact date of the trial. I expect this rough timescale and his name will be sufficient to identify of whom I speak._

_I realise that trial records are not available to just any person who asks for them. The reason for my request lies in my relation to the prisoner, Mr Black. Specifically, I am his godson and, to my knowledge, his designated heir. I believe this is sufficient authorisation according to the law._

_My preferred method of delivery for the records would be that they are owled to me at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where I currently attend._

_Most respectfully,  
Harry James Potter_

..ooOOoo..

Harry looked down at the letter. He wasn't sure whether he thought it pretentiously overformal, or that it showed him in a mature light. Either way, his parents had been insistent that it was appropriate, having dictated it to him word for word.

A barn owl, one of those belonging to the school, chose that moment to appear at the nearest window. Harry blinked, surprised for a moment, before shaking the oddity off. He'd come to realise that owls, unbeknownst to Muggles, possessed powers of uncanny intuition and intelligence. He wasn't sure if this was natural or the result of magic and spells cast on them by wizards. Either way it was often useful, especially as they occasionally chose to appear unexpectedly when they were needed.

Before approaching the bird, Harry paused and quickly looked around.

"Don't worry, the crone lost interest in staring suspiciously at you about ten minutes ago. She must've decided you weren't here to deface her precious books after all. Went back to shelving or dusting or pulling wings off flies or torturing kittens I think—whatever it is she does with her time."

Harry nodded, and moved to the window, opening it. The owl held out a leg for Harry to attach his letter. "This is for Amelia Bones, at the Ministry in London," he told it, then called, "Thanks," as it hooted and winged off southwards towards London.

"James, you need to stop with impertinent nicknames," Lily said, as Harry closed the window and returned to his seat. "One of these days Harry's going to slip up and use one in front of someone, and get himself into a load of trouble."

James, rather than contrite, appeared amused. "Can you imagine the looks on their faces, if Harry actually called McGonagall 'old Min', or Pince 'the crone'? Or—or—" He laughed. "What if he called Snape 'Snivellus'? Merlin, that'd take the git back."

Rather than seeing the humour, Harry paled. "He'd kill me," he said very seriously.

"Oh," James said, sobering suddenly. "Yeah, the bastard just might, huh?"

"Which reminds me," Lily said. "Harry, how have you been going with the formal complaint?"

"Good, I think. I've been keeping track of every time Snape does something horrible, especially to me—though, that's pretty much whenever I'm around him. It's a really long list."

"It's important though. A list of incidents with dates, times and details will bring credibility to our complaint."

"You think it'll be enough?"

"Of course, the evidence speaks for itself."

At the same time, James said, "Maybe—couldn't hurt to stack the deck though."

"James?" Lily said questioningly.

"Well I was thinking, Harry, you're not the only one Snivellus treats like shit, even if you're his favourite target. Why don't you try recruiting some other students into the plan?"

"A group complaint?" Lily said, perking up. "That's actually a very good idea."

"Heck, make it a _mass_ complaint," James said. "Make of scroll for signatures and pass it around the school. I'm sure there'll be loads of students willing to get in on the act."

"Snape would just find out and confiscate it," Harry warned. "And then he'd put me in detention the rest of my life."

"Well, we'll just have to be sneaky about it! And lucky for you, bambi my boy, you have one of the infamous Marauders, purveyors of mischief and mayhem, willing to help you come up with a genius and unassailable plan. And sneaking goes practically hand in hand with mischief making, you know."

"Oh lord." Lily rolled her eyes, as if in exasperation, though she couldn't quite hide her smile. "James is in Marauder mode. Will the school survive?"

..ooOOoo..

When Harry awoke to Ron's shouts on Christmas morning, he was surprised at the pile of presents that awaited him at the foot of his bed. Not because he expected to receive none though, for this year, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he knew he would be receiving gifts from his parents. They had managed this through the complicated method of getting Harry to page through owl order catalogues with his eyes closed, and then to order items by catalogue number, requesting they be gift wrapped and delivered. Thus, he'd expected to see three presents waiting for him, since he had ordered only three for himself, on his parents' behalves—an individual one from each, which they had kept secret even from one another, and a third they'd decided on together. And yet, there were definitely more than that set out for him.

As he sat staring in disbelief, Ron seemed to notice and looked over. The redhead flushed awkwardly when he spotted a certain package.

"Oh no," he groaned, "that lumpy one looks like it's from my mum."

"Your mum?" Harry asked, confused.

"Yeah, I sort of mentioned you weren't expecting anything from your aunt and uncle, so she must have made you a jumper too," Ron explained as he unwrapped his own lumpy package, pulling out a knitted jumper. "Maroon, again. She always forgets I hate maroon," he moped. He brightened up though, as he saw something else at the bottom of the package. "Ah, but her fudge on the other hand is always excellent!"

Harry, eager to open his presents, but having promised his parents to not do so without them, wasted no further time before twisting his ring thrice on his finger with a whisper of their names. His parents appeared and greeted him cheerily and with well wishes. Harry grinned in their direction when Ron wasn't paying attention, but knew better than to try and talk to them with a witness around to wonder at his odd behaviour.

Mrs Weasley had indeed sent him a sweater. It was emerald green with a gold lion stitched on front, a bit too big for him but not by much, and very warm. Lily commented that it was very sweet of the woman. James meanwhile, was more complimentary of the fudge, and jealous that he couldn't have some himself—apparently Mrs Weasley's cooking was legendary among those who'd tasted it, which included the members of the Order of the Phoenix during the war.

There was only one other unfamiliar package in the bunch which, when then newspaper wrapping was removed, revealed a fifty-pence piece from the Dursleys. Lily and James fumed at the casual disregard shown their son, but Harry didn't let it get to him, not when he had _real_ presents this year. Instead, he snorted and rolled his eyes, thinking it very in character for his family to send such a cheap gift, if they were going to bother sending something at all. Besides, he found amusement in Ron's fascination of the coin—apparently he'd never seen Muggle money—and happily let him keep it.

Finally Harry came to the last three gifts.

"Open mine first!" James insisted, practically bouncing with his eagerness. "The Gryffindor coloured one!"

Harry smiled and reached for the red parcel with gold ribbon. With great anticipation, for it was the first time he could remember ever receiving a gift from his parents, he ripped back the wrappings. Inside was a small box, on the front of which was displayed a yellow ball with wings.

"Is that a _golden snitch_?" Ron gasped in awe.

"It is!" James cheered. "Remember to be the first to touch it though."

"Wow," Ron said. "Better touch it before someone else can."

"So alike," Lily said with amusement, shaking her head.

"Er, why is it important to touch it first?" Harry asked.

"Snitches have flesh memory," James said.

"Because they remember—flesh memories it's called—and after that they tend to hang about their first catcher," Ron explained in an uncharacteristically knowledgeable tone. "It's why the makers and the referee and everyone have to wear gloves when handling them, and after one's been caught it can't be used in a game again."

"You mean that every Quidditch game uses a new snitch?"

"Yep."

"Isn't that a bit—wasteful?"

"Not really. They have to be charmed that way you know, so if there's ever any doubt which Seeker made the catch, the referee can use the snitch to tell for sure. Now, open it already!"

Harry opened the box's lid. Sitting inside was a shiny golden orb, about the size of a walnut, decorated with intricate tracery. He reached in and grabbed a hold of it. A second glance at the packaging box showed simple illustrated instructions on the back. Following these directions, Harry grasped a finger on either side and pressed into the indentations there. There was a pause, and then golden wings unfurled as if from nowhere—though in actuality, they'd been carefully camouflaged amongst the decorative patterns—and the snitch rose into the air. Harry stared as it hovered and, suddenly, zipped away.

"Damn," he said, jumping to his feet. "Did I lose it?"

"Nah, s'like I said 'bout the flesh mem'ries, 'memb'r?" Ron assured him around a mouth-full of fudge. He swallowed before continuing in a clearer tone. "It'll flit about like a normal snitch, but it won't go far from you—not now you've touched it. Should still be nearby somewhere." As if on cue, a blur of gold flickered in the corner of Harry's eyes. Without though, his arm shot out, plucking up the snitch. Ron looked impressed. "Good catch! Maybe when you try out next year, you should go for Seeker."

"I had one myself when I was younger," James said. "It's multifunctional!"

"Multifunctional?" Lily asked.

"Yep. It's good for entertainment, keeping your reflexes up, and most importantly, makes you look extremely cool—just ignore your mother's snort of scepticism there. So, do you like it? Huh, huh, do you?"

"It's _brilliant_," Harry said with honest feeling, giving his father a sideways look and a grin.

"Mine next then Harry," Lily said. "The red and green."

Harry hesitantly let go of the snitch. After a few seconds, he confirmed that it was indeed zipping about in his general vicinity, and picked up the package that was wrapped in traditional Muggle Christmas colours. It was heavier than the snitch had been, and more flat and rectangular than boxy. Peeling away the paper revealed two books inside—one was thick and the other less so. Once all the wrapping was removed he inspected them more closely. The thicker one was titled _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_. The other was _A Guide to Uncovering Your Ancestry_.

"Remember how when we first learned you were a Parseltongue, and I talked about maybe checking my line to see if I had some squib ancestor? Well, we figured that you might like to do some research along those lines, and not just on my side. Learn about your family history and all."

"That heavy one's pretty well-known in pureblood circles," James said, peeking over Harry's shoulder to inspect the gifts himself. "It's the most detailed record of the pureblood wizarding families since—I'm not sure how early it goes exactly, but centuries and centuries ago at least. Good choice Lily."

"I know," she said smugly. "The other, _Ancestry_, is like it says—a guide to researching your genealogy. It has some tips, and references some books, like _Natures Nobility_, as well as certain ministry records like for births and marriage and how to go about getting that information. But it also contains some magic—potions, rituals, spells and all—that can be used to determine your family tree. I remember looking over it when I was considering tracing mine and found it fascinating, though as you know I never got around to it."

"Wow," Harry said with a small smile, quite liking the idea of learning about his family and where he'd come from.

"Hey, when you look at your Potter side, I'll tell you some family stories your granddad told me," James said with a grin. "There's this really funny one about your great-great uncle and an incident with a hag and a Veela."

"Are you sure it's entirely appropriate?" Lily asked through narrowed eyes.

"Of course," James said with a look of utmost innocence, which was of course so out of place on his face that he was not believed for a moment.

"Open your last present Harry," Lily said, finally turning her suspicious glare away from her husband.

Harry turned to his last gift, the combined present from both his parents, which was wrapped in white and silver. In quick order he had it too unwrapped, to reveal another box, this one larger than his first two had been. When he removed the lid he gasped in surprise at the contents. Inside was what he could best describe as a fluffy custard-coloured ball. The shocking part though was that as light entered the box, a pair of eyes appeared among the fur, blinking sleepily awake and looking up at him.

"Give him a little of your fudge Harry," Lily suggested.

He did so, reaching in with a cautious hand, and made a noise of surprise when a long thin tongue suddenly shot out from a barely visible snout, curling around the piece of fudge and pulling it back to eat. The creature seemed quite pleased with the offering as it gave a literal purr of contentment and hopped awkwardly out of the box, moving to snuggle up in Harry's lap. Without realising it, a smile had found its way onto Harry's lips at the actions of the odd but endearing creature.

"What is it?" he wondered aloud.

"A Puffskein," James said, grinning proudly at Harry's obvious delight.

"What's what?" Ron asked at the same time, looking over. "Oh hey, you got a Puffskein. Cool. We used to have one when I was younger, but then the twins used it for beater practice one time—"

"What?" Harry gasped, unconsciously cradling the creature in his lap protectively.

"Oh, it was fine," Ron said dismissively. "Didn't hurt it or anything. But Fred—or was it George—got a bit overenthusiastic and sent it flying a bit far. Never could find it again."

"They _are_ remarkably durable," Lily agreed, which reassured Harry somewhat. "It's partly why we thought it would make a perfect first pet for you. They're hardy little things and they'll eat almost anything, from leftovers to spiders, so they really very easy to look after. We thought of getting you an owl but decided this would be better, since you've got school owls available for use already. So, did we pick well?"

"I've always wanted a pet," Harry said, nodding, honestly quite pleased.

"Well, what're you gonna name him?" Ron asked.

"Him? How can you tell?"

"Dunno, looks like a he, don't you think?"

"They're both aren't they?" James asked.

"Hermaphroditic—both male and female," Lily confirmed. "You can use him, her, or it—any and all are correct."

"Looks more like a ball of fluff than a he or she," Harry said to Ron. "But sure, 'he' will do. And as for the name, I'm honestly not sure. I'll have to think about it."

Ron nodded and turned back to his own gifts then. Meanwhile, James seemed to take Harry's words as a request for ideas and began spouting some off. Unfortunately, his suggestions seemed to range from the descriptive but unoriginal, such as 'puff-ball' and 'fluffy-purry-thingy', to the down-right strange, like 'the-custard-mop-with-no-handle' and 'the-pet-who-secretly-wants-to-take-over-the-world-with-its-powers-of-cuteness'.

"Don't listen to him Harry, really," Lily pleaded. "James should not be allowed to name _anything_. When we got our cat, he insisted on naming it 'razor-kitty-claws-of-doom'. And it stuck. That cat wouldn't answer to anything else. At best I could get away with Claws."

"It was a good name!" James objected. "I'm good at naming!"

"Harry," Lily said gravely. "If your dad had his way and I hadn't stepped in, you would have been named Elvendork Bambi Potter."

Harry paled. "Right, I suddenly love you even more than ever," he said, giving his mother a look of utter gratefulness.

"What was that?" Ron asked, looking over.

"Nothing," Harry said, and his friend turned back to his fudge.

James huffed petulantly. "There is _nothing_ wrong with Elvendork. It's unisex!" Then his expression brightened. "In fact, that'd make it perfect for the fur ball, don't you think?"

Harry just gave his mother a look, as if to say 'and you married him?' She just laughed and kissed her husband's cheek.

"He's just lucky he's cute to make up for it," she said with a smirk.

"Hey!" James said, not looking sure if he should feel offended or flattered.

"Merry Christmas!" two voices yelled.

Harry looked over to the door where the Weasley twins had appeared, dragging a reluctant Percy Weasley between them. All three were clad in knitted sweaters like the ones Harry and Ron wore, and Fred and George's were identical but for the letters stitched on front. Harry watched with some amusement as the pair made some fun of that, joking that their mum thought they couldn't remember their own names, and that of course they knew they were 'Gred and Forge'. Then Harry received compliments for his own 'fine jumper, of strangely familiar style', and after that there was some commotion as the twins proceeded to force their older brother's jumper over his head, knocking his glasses askew, and insisted he sit with them rather than the prefects since Christmas was for family.

"Come on Ron, Harry," said Fred, or was it Forge, or George—Harry wasn't sure.

"The Great Hall awaits!" the other twin finished.

"Hang on, just gotta grab Scabbers," Ron said, grabbing the rat from his pillow before hurrying to follow.

As Harry got up to follow after the group headed to the Great Hall—the twins frogmarching Percy between them, and Ron trailing behind—James gave a very loud cross between a gasp and a choking sound. Harry paused as a look back showed a shocked look on his father's face.

"Dad?" he whispered.

"James?" Lily asked with concern.

Suddenly James seemed to snap to his senses. "Sorry, I swallowed the wrong way," he said sheepishly. "Didn't think spirits could do that."

Harry frowned. The tone and expression seemed perfectly normal, and yet there was something he couldn't quite put his finger on—something that felt off about his father's response.

"Hey, what's keeping you?" Ron asked from the doorway, drawing his attention. "The twins just went out the portrait. If we don't hurry all the good food will be gone!"

"I, ah—" Harry floundered for an excuse before inspiration struck. "I'm not sure what to do with—" He gestured to his new pet.

"You can bring him along if you want, but he's not quite pocket-sized like Scabbers here. He'd be fine on his own though, so long as we close the door."

Harry nodded and set the Puffskein on his bed, making sure it was comfortable and, to be extra sure it wouldn't wander off, surrounded it with a wall of pillows. The creature seemed content with its little nest, and purred, closing its eyes.

"Harry," James said, as he headed for the door. "Why don't you send your mum and me back for now, and call us again later tonight."

Harry nodded. He would never keep them with him longer than they wished, not with knowing how too much of the mortal plane harmed them. And so he sent them a quick smile, received two in return, and released them back into the afterlife. He then followed Ron down to dinner.

* * *

**Reviews make me happy (hint, hint).**


End file.
